


Pinkerton Boys

by BlindSwandive, Naoe



Series: Dashing Detective Dean, Omega of Your Dreams Archives [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1887, Alpha Castiel (Supernatural), Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Western, Boomtowns, Chicago (City), DWBB 2019, Dean Winchester Big Bang, El Paso TX, Just didn't happen, M/M, Mexico, Old West, Omega Dean, Omega Dean Winchester, Pinkerton Detective Dean Winchester, Pinkerton Detective Sam Winchester, Pinkerton Detectives, Russian Castiel, Wild West, no explicit sex, omega!dean, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-04 21:23:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 34,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17905907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/pseuds/BlindSwandive, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naoe/pseuds/Naoe
Summary: The Pinkerton Detectives have a LONG history of solving crimes. It's 1887 Chicago, and Omega Dean Winchester and Beta Sam Winchester have been tasked with locating the Beta daughter of one Judge Zel Masters, one of the most powerful judges in the city.This leads the Boys off into the still Wild West, riding the train into a mad world of boom towns and no law, looking for the foreigner seen traveling with Miss Masters and hoping that will lead to the "lady" herself.There's no time for love while dodging bullets and wandering in an endless desert.Part of Dean Winchester Big Bang 2018





	1. Chicago and the Average O

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my last bang for SPN, and I was lucky to get [Lulu (Blind Swandive)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/) [ART MASTER POST](https://blindswandive.livejournal.com/87997.html) as my artist! She's been super patient and sweet to me, and I am absolutely thankful for that.
> 
> I need to thank ShippersList for beta'ing for me. Thank you! Love you!
> 
>  **[EDIT]** : Many thanks to Jesus_Of_Suburbia for helping me with the Russian!!
> 
> And finally... some stuff about this story.
> 
>  
> 
> **Dean is only temporarily in a dress!! I swear!**
> 
>  
> 
>  **Info on the History**  
>  I was overly optimistic about my ability to pull historical accuracy off for a time period and a ridiculously complicated city like boom town El Paso, TX. Like, the city went from maybe 200 residents from the 1850s-70s, to a huge population surge, starting in 1881-1882, from being the nexus of two railroads (from north to south and east to west), tapping out in the 1890 census as 10,000.
> 
> What this means is that the place had HUGE growing pains and trying to come up with a clean history was virtually impossible.
> 
> So you have an actual AU with an occasionally questionable history. It's ABO, so I figured we'd all live with it.
> 
>  **ABO** I think I covered it, but I'll make sure it's clear: there are male and female Alphas, but the women have no uterus. Betas are just average Joes, although I have used some "psychology" from around that time to add "secondary gender tendencies." I think you'll see what I mean. There are NO Omega women, and both Omega men and Alpha women are very rare.
> 
> In fact, many of them go West. (Hello, Manifest Destiny.)
> 
> I hope you enjoy the story and feel free to offer constructive criticism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: ABO verse. Please note that, unless stated, all characters are Betas with the “human” sense of smell and level of strength/ability. No female Omegas, since Betas can give birth. Alpha women have no uterus and cannot give birth.

 

  
  


Dean Marion Winchester hated the big city. He hated all the rules, all the people, all the fuss over proper behavior and clothing.

His little brother, Sam, loved the big city for its booksellers and its educational institutions.

His little brother, Sam, was also a Beta with Alpha tendencies and could wander about in trousers at his leisure.

Dean, as an Omega (with Alpha tendencies, he added), was not so fortunate in the battle of the sexes.

Omega men were extremely rare, and, because men and especially Alphas were idiots, they tried to treat them as princesses, often better than the median of Beta women. It made sense, given there was no such thing as an Omega woman, and Omega men were considered absolute catches for any Alpha or–the largest population–Beta to mate. As such, Dean had been forced into frilly women-ish petticoats and stays much sooner than he had wanted (which was _never_ ).

Sometimes he wondered if his mother had survived into his twenties if he would’ve been treated less like a princess by John and more like a Beta? More like a _man_ and less like a feeble girl-child? After all, his mother had ignored most of her gender stereotypes and would have most likely supported Dean’s gender-free desires–especially to avoid marriage!

But she was no longer with them these long years.

He groaned as Lisa, his maid, helped him slip on his corset, meant to give him the ‘proper’ lines of a feminine Beta. He was too bulky, too tall to be a ‘proper’ Omega, but John Winchester had insisted he play the game in the big city.

One more reason, he thought, to flee Chicago.

Lisa huffed as she tied the laces together. “Wouldn’t be so bad if you’d just drop some of your arsenal.”

“I’m not dropping a thing,” Dean insisted through his teeth, even if the small guns tied to his thighs, the dagger-like hat pin, and the small sword he kept sheathed at his back bit into his skin. “Might need them.”

“Then no complaints, Osir.” She lightly slapped him on his bustle-covered butt.

He grimaced and stared at her pointedly through the mirror. “It’s just us, Lis. You can call me Dean.”

“Might slip up in front of company, so I’ll pass, thanks,” she retorted haughtily as she helped get the skirt over the petticoat.

“No fun,” Dean griped as his peridot-green cuirass bodice–his favorite of the accursed things, as it was a tad looser in the shoulders than it ought to be–was shrugged on, leaving the myriad of buttons to be done up by Lisa. “I hate these new fashions. I’m a _man._ I don’t understand why I’m forced to wear this…frippery!”

He glared at his reflection: the feminine face of an Omega, the long, almond-colored hair done up in proper chignon with curls modestly covering the back of his neck, the tall frame made thinner at the waist by stays and ungodly tight clothing, an uncomfortable (in a slightly deeper shade of green) skirt that irritated him as he couldn’t properly move.

Dean _hated_ it.

“Please tell my brother I will be down in a moment,” he groused, taking his matching green hat with the long white feather and smashing it on his head.

Lisa rolled her eyes at his behavior, but she knew he’d put it on properly. Where else was he going to stick his oversized hatpin?

 

Samuel John Winchester was a worrier and most of his worry centered around his big brother.

Objectively speaking–with a critical eye and no gross inclinations or creepiness–he knew his Omega brother was a beauty. He heard enough salivating from the Betas at his club to know about the “delightful freckles,” the “glowing green eyes,” the “perfect Omega mouth,” and the “adorable ears” that stuck out a bit. He had learned to grit his teeth and just ignore the urge to rip out their obscene tongues because Sam knew for certain that _none_ of those filthy scallywags were worthy enough to touch Dean’s hand much less take it in marriage.

Because Dean was a fighter, a brilliant tactician, and an excellent detective.

That’s why they were both Pinkertons.

Sure, their Father, John Winchester, had not been pleased when his firstborn was an Omega, but everything he taught his youngest in a bid to keep his weapons and ammunition shop going, Sam had taught to Dean. Dean who was actually better at guns, knives, and sparring than he was.

It didn’t help that Sam’s leaning towards the law caused John to cease speaking to both his sons, and left Mary–his wife–to deal with them.

He had forgotten, unfortunately for him, that Mary was not a born Winchester, but a Campbell, and they taught their women-children and their Omegas to take care of themselves because they were legacies of the Campbell blood.

Grandfather Campbell taught Dean how to ride a horse like an Alpha or Beta. He didn’t care about rules for “precious princesses.”

“Man needs to protect himself,” he’d mutter gruffly during their stays at their farmhouse.

Needless to say, Samuel Campbell and John Winchester were oil and flame: it took only the slightest disagreement to set them off.

It was not surprising, then, when the only thing–only _person_ –holding them together died suddenly of illness, their terms became even uglier. After all, Mary Campbell Winchester was stricken and gone within a fortnight, with nothing modern medicine could do to stop the Grim Reaper from taking her.

Sam, at seventeen and in university, returned home to help take care of affairs.  Not a year later, he took over protection of Dean, as their Father was killed in a bar brawl, leaving them the gun shop and a hill of debts.

“That’s what the fool gets for thinking he can take on a full Alpha,” their Grandfather had snorted with disdain.

With Dean, a fetching 22-years-old Omega, and Sam, an 18-year-old law student, their Grandfather gave them the largesse to live on their own in the city. After all, Sam wanted to finish his law degree, and Dean had better marriage prospects in the city than in the countryside where Samuel Campbell kept people as far away from him as possible. If his wife Deanna hadn’t forced him to patron the boys for better prospects, they would’ve been on the farm learning _actual_ work and how to be a _proper_ _Campbell_ Omega.

It was, then, to their Grandfather’s surprise that as soon as Sam had his law degree, he and Dean signed up with the Pinkerton Detective Agency. The Pinkertons were a squirrelly lot, in his opinion, what with hiring all sorts and–despite their preventing Lincoln’s first assassination attempt–suspected of amoral doings.

John’s old war friend, Colonel Robert Singer, however, had been working at the Agency since its opening in 1850, before heading off with John Winchester to preserve the Union sacred, and returning to the Agency in the aftermath. He earned himself a chance to manage a smaller crimes division that allowed Omegas to participate in cases back in 1872. Women detectives, of course, had already been a part of the agency since 1856 (God Bless Kate Warne, may she rest in peace).

Now, Mr. Bobby Singer ran 10 agents for monitoring smaller local crime jobs, such as runaways, scams, and false claims, and the Winchesters were two of his best agents. Dean could charm the upholstery off a settee, and Sam’s legal knowledge untangled the most creative (il)legal webs.

Together, they were unstoppable.

But Dean was now rounding on 28 with nary a marriage proposal in sight, and Sam was 24 and more interested in apprehending criminals than a law career or family.

This was not where their Grandfather (or Father, really) foresaw them.

Nevertheless, being summoned by Bobby meant a _case_ , which meant getting Dean out of the house, which meant he would stop being an indignant, sulking pain in Sam’s ass.

Dean came stomping downstairs looking cross as he pulled on his soft green gloves. He glared at Sam as he got to the bottom, and Sam handed him his off-white parasol (with the hidden sword in the handle).

“It better not be some stupid errand,” he griped, grabbing the parasol out of Sam’s hands.

“If you’re worried it is, I’ll gladly go down there by myself,” Sam said mildly, and, as expected, Dean’s glare narrowed and strengthened.

“The last three cases he gave us were to find _dogs_ , Sammy,” he grumbled, straightening his hat. “I don’t even like the filthy things.”

Sam snorted. “A dog thief was stealing rich owners’ dogs and demanding money, Dean. That’s precisely our job.”

“Whatever.” Dean flounced towards the door, irritation obvious. “If it’s another damned pet ring, I’m staying home.”

The Pinkerton’s branch of Small Crimes was not far from downtown. They had walked the distance easily and Dean had managed not to stab anyone. Considering the number of looks he received from Betas and Alphas alike, it seemed a small miracle and a good harbinger for the coming assignment.

The Small Crimes office was small and plain, with a young Omega working the front desk for Bobby. Kevin Tran-Penikett was an excellent linguist, extremely organized, and productive. Because he worked in the office, he wasn’t required to wear all the girly frippery that Dean was, although he kept his hair fashionably Beta long so it brushed his shoulders. He was also already mated to a dashing Alpha detective, so the strict rules for Omega fashion no longer applied as stringently.

Kevin was watching a telegraph sounder[1] with sharp eyes, manning the two-way telephone to the main Pinkerton office, and waved the Winchesters to have a seat.[2] The chairs were red leather seats that had seen better days but they were still sturdy. He ignored them for a few more minutes until he apparently found what he was looking for. Grinning widely, he ripped off the ribbon of paper and circled something on it, scooted over to scribble something on his sheaf of papers.

“Dean, Sam! Nice to see you both! Bobby’s in his office. Just knock.” He called over to them, his smile bright as he attached the ticker-tape to a file, reaching for the phone as he jerked his thumb down the hallway.

“Something good, Kev?” Dean asked smartly.

Kevin laughed. “Something great! Seems Doug and Donna caught the smuggling criminals out in Colorado! They’re bringing them in!”

The Winchesters congratulated him as they stood and made their way down the hall. The plainly decorated hall was lined with the photos of successfully solved crimes and the agents responsible guiding them along to the main doorway, a frosted glass window that had “Senior Detective Robert J. Singer” printed on it in gold lettering. Sam knocked lightly and wasn’t surprised by the gruff swearing he could hear through the door.

“Get in here, ya idjits!” Bobby roared as Sam pushed open the door, Dean close behind him.

Bobby Singer was an older Alpha, at least in his fifties, which was rare. Too many Alphas enjoyed fighting and killing others to survive to middle age, much less past it. His well-trimmed beard was graying, as was the hair at his temples, but his gray-blue eyes were sharp, even if his lips were turned down hard at the edges in annoyance.

“Sam, Dean… about time you two decided to mosey on down here,” he griped, waving a hand at the two chairs in front of his desk. “Ya need a formal invitation to sit down, or maybe a hand, Princess Winchester,” he chided, eyeing them both.

Dean glared at Bobby as he took a seat, Sam following him into the other. “What’s gotten into you?” Dean demanded, pulling the dainty green leather gloves off his hands as he glared at their longtime patron. “Someone die?”

“Lucky for you, no one yet,” Bobby snarked, sitting back in his seat. His desk was covered with books and files, with papers hanging off the edge, just waiting to topple off by an errant elbow. There was a mug of what Sam hoped was just coffee and nothing stronger sitting on the corner, as Bobby smelled somewhat acridly of annoyance and uncertainty.

“Yet?” Sam raised an eyebrow as he removed his hat. “So, it’s not another dog case?”

Bobby glared daggers at him, while Dean snickered.  “Judge Zel Masters’s daughter, Megan, has gone missing.” He plucked a file from off his pile and handed it to Sam.

Dean snagged the file mid-transit and flipped it open. A typical sepia-toned photo of a pretty, young woman with blonde hair and dark eyes peered back at them. “Details?”

Bobby huffed. “Beta on the petite side. Blonde hair, dark brown eyes, and a bad attitude. Her daddy has demanded we get her back pronto because she’s engaged and they’re finalizing the contract with Mr. Al D. Cooke.”

“Th-the District Attorney-slash-politician?” Sam grabbed the file, ignoring Dean’s protest to get a better gander at the girl. She had a round face with long blonde hair piled on top, a short, straight nose, a tiny cupid’s bow of a mouth, and a decent enough figure that he could tell from her seated position. She was above-average in looks, which would make her stand out a bit. That was good. “The guy they’re trying to get to run for governor?”

“One and the same,” Bobby replied, pointing his finger at the file and moving it like he wanted Sam to turn the page.

Sam turned the page and there was a letter in a beautiful script. He read it, his eyebrows shooting up.

The words written were _not_ so beautiful, some were downright disrespectful, and a few flatly blasphemous. He handed Dean the folder back and Dean read through the letter, releasing a soft, impressed whistle. “Girl’s got guts, that’s for sure. That’s a corker of a letter to send to daddy.”

“Well, don’t get too impressed. She stole his lockbox savings and hightailed it off to God knows where.” Bobby moved his finger like he wanted to push the letter aside. Dean did and scowled.

“Says here she was last seen at Union Depot with some dark-haired man, no testimony if he were Beta or Alpha,” Dean muttered, showing it to Sam.

“How far do you reckon she’d go?” Sam asked quietly as he took the folder and memorized the information.

“She’s smart as a whip and twice as hostile,” Bobby sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I got a description of the fellow. Says tall, dark hair, blue eyes, and definitely a foreigner.”

“Any kind of specific foreigner or…”

Bobby glared at Dean and snorted, “Smart ass, they didn’t say. Just that the man had an odd accent.”

“That narrows it down,” Dean muttered. Sam nudged him with an elbow. He had learned better than to try and jab Dean, as his corset practically doubled as armor.

“So where are we headed?” Sam asked as he closed the folder.

“Well, best we got is that train they were on was headed West. We’re not sure where they were getting off, but it’s possible to get more information at our office in Albuquerque, up in the New Mexico territory.”

“West?” Dean suddenly brightened. “We’re going West? Out of Chicago for once?”

Bobby sighed. “You two are the most competent detectives I have and with Judge Masters riding our tails, it’s best to get this over with as quickly as possible. The main office passed it down to us because the girl hightailed herself and Judge Masters wants to keep it private and off the society pages, so the whole thing is on thin ice from the start. With Dean along, there’ll be no cry of impropriety. But this needs to resolve quickly with the Judge and the District Attorney involved. Understand?”

Dean beamed at Sam. “We’re headed _West_ ,” he nearly squeaked.

Sam rolled his eyes, perfectly aware of his brother’s dime-novel obsession. “Anything else we need to know?”

“Be careful out there, boys. It’s no place for a civilized being.”

* * *

 

[1] These are the machines that received messages via Morse code and punched it into paper.

[2] Telephones were not really designed yet for mass use, but telephones between two places could be arranged the way we would think of intercoms.


	2. Westward, Ho!

  


In the late 19th C, boomtowns were infamous for being lawless, as they were crossroads between true frontier and last of any taste of civilization. El Paso, Texas, (sometimes referred to as Franklin) was worse than many towns, according to the dime westerns Dean read on a regular. Least that’s what they said when they reported on Billy the Kid, the tough Omega that grew up woolly and wild in the New Mexico Territories.

With the combinations of indecorous delights paired with a lack of moral lawmen, Sam worried about the sheer number of guns out in the West and his brother’s ~~loud mouth~~ bewitching beauty. He grew more worried when, after they returned home, Dean disappeared into his bedroom until dinner and reappeared much changed from the usual.

Sam, in the midst of a sip of tea, spat the liquid out over the table at the sight: Dean was wearing _trousers_ and a _Beta’s shirt_. The Beta shirt was a bit more open at the collar than any Omega shirt, revealing Dean’s collarbones and the notch of his throat.

Granted, now that he was looking a bit more closely and his coughing fit had subsided, a garbled, half-choked, “ _DEAN!”_ escaped his throat properly. And–to add insult to injury–now that he wasn’t dribbling tea from his nose, he could tell that they had been _his_ trousers. A pair of fawn-brown trousers that had mysteriously disappeared one day, and he could now see why.

“What do you think?” Dean asked with a thrilled grin, turning with his hands wide so Sam could see the full results.

They looked terrible on him because they fit so poorly, but Sam cleared his throat and nodded. “They…look…comfortable?”

“Better than stays, I tell you what,” Dean beamed happily while bending at the waist.

“Right…of course.”

Dean grinned and made a slight questioning noise, holding his finger up to give Sam pause. He ducked out of the room and returned with his hand behind his back, his smile mischievous. Sam eyed him and then Dean slammed some sort of hat on his head.

Sam stared. Sam goggled. Sam burst out laughing, particularly as the hat was a bit too small for Dean’s head and sat awkwardly atop it.

“Is that a COONSKIN HAT?” He cried in disbelief, while Dean glared daggers and snatched the wretched thing off. “Where did you even find one of those?”

Sulking at being made fun of, Dean picked at the hat’s edge where some of the fur seemed to be coming loose. “Lisa…” He pressed his lips together angrily, and spat, “Lisa knew I wanted one and gave me Ben’s when he was tired of it. His grandfather had given it to him when he was seven.”

Sam snorted again, amused, and Dean threw it as hard as he could at his face. “I just wanted to show you how good I would look in it! Me, a frontiersman, especially now that my hair has been cut!”

Pausing a moment, Sam pulled the hat off his face, tossed it onto the table, and stared at Dean’s short hair. He had been so taken aback by the _trousers_ and _shirt_ that he had not noted Dean’s hair.

It was, unbelievably, shorter than his own, trimmed in an alpha cut so it was trimmed closely up his head, shockingly showing off the back of Dean’s neck and behind his ears, _sensitive areas_ that no Omega should show so…so… _wantonly!_

“Dean!” He cried, “What have you done!?”

Smirking, Dean twirled, showing off his bare shoulders. “I liberated myself, Sam. I hacked a chunk off the back and forced Lisa to clean it up for me!”

Sam felt a pressure start somewhere between his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose to stave it off. “Dean, that’s an _Alpha_ haircut! I hate to state the obvious, but you’re _not_ an Alpha!”

Rolling his eyes, Dean sarcastically replied, “I know, Sammy! The lack of a popping knot at fifteen indicated that quite sufficiently.”

“That is so improper,” Sam grumbled, more disconcerted and shaken by his brother’s appearance than he liked. Omegas were _never_ to show their necks. Even married Omegas like Kevin wore their hair down to their shoulders at least, in a slightly different manner from Betas. But Sam liked to consider himself rather liberal and open in thought, and he found his initial response was disappointingly conservative and reserved. Some Beta women often flaunted their bosoms and tried to entice mates with risqué hairstyles off their necks while perfuming themselves with fake Omega scents in vanilla, anise, or orange, instead of using the popular floral fragrances that most Beta women favored. He innately thought that was just fine, but his brother coming out with his neck showing so…so… _flagrantly_!

 _Unacceptable_ , his brain whispered. He inwardly shuddered that it sounded like John.

Taking a deep breath to center himself, Sam looked back up at his smirking brother, who appeared exceedingly pleased with having discombobulated his little brother. He blew out the breath as a sigh. “Fine, but I insist you wear Alpha-scent sachets.”

Dean, grinning that he had won, nodded. “Fair. I’ll get them.”

Scent sachets were small fabric packets filled with dried herbs and such, meant to cover (or enhance) a specific set of aromas. It was generally useful for mixed company, especially if there were many Alphas and Omegas in attendance and they were looking to modestly mute their scents or–if looking for a mate–enhance them.

Dean’s favorite fake-Alpha sachets were filled with rosewood and cedar shavings with cloves, vetiver, and dark amber. They muted his usual Omega scent, a deep spicy citrus, but the woodsy spice of most Alpha scents acted almost as an enhancer to his natural cinnamon orange, giving him the scent of an Alpha while his physical build (and hidden long hair) gave him the look of one.

Dean liked to wear the sachets and sneak out sometimes, Sam knew. He just hadn’t known Dean had sacrificed _his_ trousers in the fun. Or any trousers. Actually, Sam wondered idly, where did he even think Dean had gotten his clothes and… _wait_ …had Dean gone galivanting about in those clothes?

Narrowing his gaze, Sam asked, “Did you go out with that shirt? Seriously, Dean?”

Averting his eyes, Dean shrugged. “Does it matter? I’m going to go change into something more appropriate for dinner.”

Sam watched him slink off with an aggrieved sigh as he dabbed at his spilled tea a bit more. “He’ll be the death of me,” he muttered.

The thing that Dean had least expected was how _boring_ train travel actually was over long distances.

Sam had booked them in a fancy Pullman car, and although he had managed to send Lisa out with Dean’s measurements to get some prêt-à-porter suits from a ~~well-paid for his silence~~ tailor, they weren’t great. They didn’t fit Dean as well as many of his dresses, but he _could see his legs,_ so he determined it was a win.

The problem, Dean thought as the train rambled on, hiding a yawn behind his palm, was that nothing he expected to happen…happened. They were yet an hour away from disembarking at Albuquerque in the New Mexico Territory, and there had been no Indians trying to take their scalps, no bandits holding them up, no Omegas tied to the tracks and in need of rescue. There weren’t even any wild bison to entertain him.

It was vexing.

Especially since, whenever Dean pulled out one of his dime westerns to reread or bought a new one at a stop, Sam snorted with derision before diving back into his mind-numbing law books. But Dean knew _something_ had to be true. Maybe they’d run into Billy the Kid, notorious Omega? (Sam–the spoilsport–reminded him that the Kid had been dead for years.)

Shifting on his seat, he eyed the door for the thousandth time, and, just like every other time, Sam sternly said, “ **No.** ” without ever looking up from his book. Dean did not pout. He didn’t. He wasn’t sullen about not being allowed to roam the train without his brother. He wasn’t.

Sam had said he was simply uneasy about letting Dean wander in his faux-Alpha-wear. As a Beta, even with his Alpha tendencies, he couldn’t scent Dean properly, so he couldn’t determine how effectively the scent sachets were working.  Yet Sam _was_ aware there weren’t only Betas or even Omegas on the train, and Dean–in his well-informed opinion, if all the slobbering and posturing done around Dean were evidence–still was damnably “pretty.”

Dean knew that, had Sam had his way, he would’ve been locked away. After all, Omegas were automatically confined to the Omega-cars, along with any pregnant women or young girls. The railroad owners didn’t want to be responsible for stolen or raped Omegas, and large Beta guards were posted to keep raging Alphas out, just in case one of the Omegas went into heat. Omegas in the Omega-car were secured thanks to them being insured against theft, they were so precious.

As such, letting Dean wander around in his–what looked to Sam inadequate–Alpha suit just didn’t sit right. Threatening to out Dean and shove him in the Omega-car, however, had kept Dean in place so far.

_So far._

Dean didn’t think this was at all fair and he wanted to test his so-called “Alpha suit.” Up until now, his sachets had worked extremely well, placed in tiny pockets he had sewn into his undershirt. He wore a thin sachet that tied around his throat to help deceive anyone who got too close. He even felt spiffy in his new clothes, his legs no longer confined by skirts and being able to bend at the waist was heavenly.

“Dean, sit down and let’s go over this case for the last time.”

Dean rolled his eyes and tried to settle in his seat, his fingers picking at the fine thread of his dark brown trousers.

Sam heaved a sigh and put aside his book. “When we arrive in Albuquerque, we’re meeting the local Pinkerton agent, Charles Middleton. We’re to stay with him until we’re provided a guide and information about how things work around here.”

“Yeah, yeah. Talk to the local and make our way down to El Paso…”

“Dean, this is important. We don’t know how things work around here and I don’t like the thoug–“

Grinning, Dean waved his newest copy of ‘Deadwood Dick.’ “I got us, little brother! Deadwood Dick speaks to me.”

“I certainly hope not.”

“You’re just jealous of my extensive knowledge of the West.”

Now Sam rolled his eyes and snorted derisively again. “Sure, just like we were attacked by Indians and railroad bandits. Those things are pure fiction, Dean.”

Scowling, Dean clutched his [cheaply-made copy of Deadwood Dick](http://www.bhpioneer.com/deadwood/dime-novel-was-th-century-s-popular-paperback/article_a57d334b-4833-59ca-95d7-b1889e3c9c91.html) to his chest. “We just got lucky, _hombre_. It’ll be wild and woolly out there! You’ll see!”

The disbelieving look Sam threw him just made Dean smile.


	3. Charlie

Albuquerque was shockingly dirty. Unimaginably dirty. With real actual dirt that stank like standing water, urine, and shit.

Dean was not used to that, nor was it as he had imagined.  

Although Chicago was disgusting in its own way, people didn’t just spit in front of everyone, pass out on the dirt street, regardless of how inebriated they were, and especially not in a pile of horse apples. There wasn’t actual dirt in Chicago–not this brown, viscous stuff that just got into every crevice it could sneak into–but mostly ash and mud in the areas where the Winchesters lived. It helped, really, that they lived in the better side of town, where there was a streetcleaner and several police patrols.

Money did that for them and Dean had never really thought on it. Even whenever they had to go into the “bad side” of town, Dean’s high-quality gowns and the fact he was a priceless Omega tended to soften the rudest and rowdiest of townsmen. Then he’d be forced into the back with the gossiping women and he’d pick their brains for information, because they knew everything that went on in Chicago, including who was taking dogs for money and who was taking dogs for lunch.

Here, he wasn’t an “Omega,” though. He was an _Alpha_. He was able to wear his guns on his hips, his knives in his boots, and no one would think he was being _improper_ for it.

They retrieved their trunk from the porters, and, each of them hauling one end and their personal bag in the other hand, moved towards the top of the platform stairs that led to a packed dirt road, looking for their contact.

“What was the name again?”

Sam squinted into the distance a bit, the small crowd from the station dispersing in different directions. “Charles Middleton, I think.”

“Just Charlie, actually.”

They both turned and found a redheaded woman in sturdy dark trousers, an off-white ranch shirt, a well-worn leather vest, a blue kerchief tied around her neck, and a cowboy hat. She grinned at them. “Howdy! I’m Agent Charlene Middleton, but like I said, call me Charlie!”

The Winchesters nodded acknowledgment and Dean caught the woodsy scent of an Alpha. Eyebrows raised, he looked at the woman and said, “Pleasure to meet you, Ama’am.”

She huffed and waved away the title. “Just Charlie,” she insisted, “That Ama’am and Osir stuff is for back East, where folks have manners.”

Eyeing their trunk she asked, “You need help with that?”

“No,” Sam replied quickly, “It’s not very heavy, but it is bulky. Are we walking?”

Charlie pointed over to her right, where a chestnut ox was tied to a large wagon. “Got ole Verne here ready to bring you all over to the store. New Town is growing fast, but it’s probably better you stay with me.” She tipped her hat down a bit to hide her expression. “Well-off yanks don’t do too well 'round these parts.”

“Well-off?” Dean followed Sam down the short set of stairs, and they tossed it into the back of the wagon, along with their smaller, personal bags.

“You’re both too clean,” she said, as she gestured towards the front of the wagon, “And your clothes look like _good_ fabric, so you’re probably not sheep-shit poor like most folks around here.”

Sam brushed his huge hand against the lapel of his navy-blue town coat, having not thought about how their clothing might be perceived. “I didn’t think that would be an issue. I mean, with the railroad, you must get a lot of visitors and people moving here.”

Charlie clicked at the ox and flicked the reins to get the wagon moving. The streets were busy, and Dean tried not to cringe when a dirty-looking guy with blackened teeth under a dark-brown mustache and greasy skin patched with black dust watched him hungrily from the front of a bar. That the guy tugged at his friend–another filthy-looking fellow with two front teeth missing–and _he_ turned and stared at Dean from where the first guy aimed his chin, made Dean uneasy. He forced himself not to move closer to Sam, since he had been determined to sit on the outside. He noted the women wore dresses a couple of seasons out of date, but they looked well-kept, even with the bright sunlight beating down as they strolled along the wooden walkways.

“There is a lot of traffic,” Charlie admitted, ignoring the sudden wolf-whistles that followed them as they passed. “Lots of folks moving towards California. Some folks moving here. But New Town is as much a boomtown as elsewhere.” She pointed somewhere northward. “Over that way is Old Town, the original town of Albuquerque. It’s been here since like 1700, or something. This area is just trying to keep up with the railroad traffic. Zounds, it’s like two different towns, really, since the old rich Spanish Alphas keep to their territory.”

“Zounds?” Dean asked with a chuckle, glancing at the smiling woman.

Her mischievous brown eyes sparkled and she winked at him. “I enjoy Shakespeare a great deal, and I find using old words amusing. Sometimes I can convince others to dress up in Shakespearean clothing and perform a play or two. Or…” She grinned broadly, “Let’s call them extensions to plays, like Lady MacBeth leaving her stupid Alpha hubby to join the Witches, or Ophelia not being a perfect Beta lover and killing the Alpha King herself.”

“Sounds interesting.” Dean grinned back.

She clicked at Verne to move faster down Railroad Drive. “If you were sticking around, I’m sure you could have participated. Even Alpha men are invited to try their hand, and I suspect you’d make a lovely Viola.”

Sam snorted and tried to hide it in a cough. Dean elbowed him, feeling a flush creep up his neck. “It is too bad.”

Charlie’s general store was a bit off the main hub of traffic for New Town. “I mainly service those who live in the area and need supplies, or those who are on their way out to homestead,” she explained as she pulled Verne next to a well-kept store front. It was, surprisingly, two stories high, rare given the youth of the area. “I also provide _some_ hospitality, which is why you will be staying with us. Thankfully, Garth is covering the store, so I’ll be able to help a bit longer.”

She leaped off the seat and tied Verne to a post, while the two men, much stiffer for having been confined and seated for longer periods of time, groaned as they scrambled off. Or, more accurately, as Dean scrambled off as Sam was tall enough to almost need one step to reach the packed earth.

They hoisted their personal bags and, as Charlie had gotten into the bed and pushed the trunk into hefting position, they each took an end and got it down.

“You two yanks can settle up in one of the rooms, right? I’ll send up Garth with some better clothing than those blue-belly togs. Dressing like toffs will get you shot around here.” She started to remove the harness from Verne–something that looked much heavier than her petite frame could carry–and moved to lead the ox off. “See you in a bit, boys!”

Watching her take Verne to the back, talking to him the whole way, they walked inside the storefront, the wood underfoot creaking under their steps.

“Woooo weee!” Cried a voice. A young brown-haired man popped out from behind the counter with a welcoming grin. “Aren’t you two fellers just huge! Must make ‘em big out East!”

He was slightly odd looking, with a very thin and awkward body, a large nose and eyes, and a huge smile. The guy came around the counter, dressed plainly in light brown pants and a loose striped shirt with suspenders that had all had better days, and wrapped Dean in a hug. “Good to see you here, safe!”

Dean struggled a bit but before he could really fight the kid off, he was already turning to hug Sam. “Charlie was getting worried about you two! Said you’ve never been out West before.”

The guy nodded and smacked Sam’s upper arms a couple of times companionably (as Sam gaped back) and said, “Oh, yeah! Sorry, name’s Garth!”

Garth–obviously a Beta with his easy affection–pointed to a narrow set of stairs placed behind the counter and to the back that cut through to the upper floor with a passage the size of a trap door. “Over there’s the stairway. Charlie said to get you settled in and find you some clothes!” He took a step back and looked them over, whistling. “Might be a challenge. Folks around here just aren’t as tall and broad!”

Sam made his judgment face and Dean pursed his lips. “Whatever you come up with will be fine, I’m sure.”

Garth squinted and scratched under his chin. “Guess I can see if there ain’t any that’s not been shortened. Might be unstitched would be long enough.”

“Whatever works,” Sam said as he motioned for Dean to move up the staircase. It was a tad narrow and not at all made for men his size.

“What an odd guy,” Dean muttered, and Sam nodded as they wrestled the trunk up the stairs.

“My guess is they don’t get many visitors with trunks,” Sam grunted, knocking his head on the low ceiling as they passed through to upstairs.

“My guess is they don’t get many giants,” Dean corrected with a huff, just managing to get the edge of the trunk through the opening between floors.

Sam gave him an unimpressed look as he pulled himself through the entry and into the upper floor.

It had a floor runner in bright colors that Dean understood was native work, leading to the left and what looked like bedrooms. To the right was a more open space with what looked like a dining table with stools set before some open windows. A bowl filled with wildflowers sat in the center of the table, and that was all the decoration the small area had.

“She just said upstairs, right?” Sam eyed the other doors to the left.

Dean pointed. “There looks like there are names on them.” He pointed to the first door, painted a vibrant red. The word “Charlie” was painted in bold white letters.

Sam pointed to one further down on the end on its own, painted an odd blue, “Garth” painted in similar bold, white letters.

That left two white doors across from each other, each marked as one or two in black paint in the same hand.

“Firstborn, first room,” Dean smirked, opening door one and dropping his bag in it.

“Very funny,” Sam said, eyes rolling as he opened door two, both of them leaving the trunk in the middle of the hall.

The rooms were identical: simple beds with quilts, small desks for letter writing, a washing stand with a deep bowl and a pitcher for water, and windows with light cotton curtains that shifted slightly with the late spring breeze. They were quaint, with the wood walls painted white and cool.

“Not bad,” Dean murmured, leaving his door open as he dropped impolitely on the bed.

“The bed’s short!” Sam complained loudly from his room.

“The world is too short for you, Cyclops!”

“Not blind yet, Dean.”

“Keep reading those dusty tomes and you will be!”

They both chuckled at the ribbing and nearly missed Garth knocking on Dean’s door, startling them into swearing.

“Sorry, fellas, I didn’t mean to scare you or nothin’.” He held up the bundle of clothing he had brought up. “Jus’ bringin’ up the goods to make y’all look less like mail-order cowboys!”

“What?” Sam asked, as he got off the bed and took the pile of clothing Garth handed him with a wink and smile.

“Easterners, y’know? Cowboys here like to tease the lot. Especially those that come all dressed up in what they think _real_ vaqueros wear.” He pointedly did not look at Dean’s shiny boots or obviously new suit.

“Is that so?” Sam grinned obnoxiously as Dean rolled his lips in and snatched what was left of the pile from Garth’s hands.

“Shut up, you moose!”

“If you can tell me your shoe sizes, I can head over and see about getting some working boots for you.” Garth paused. “Not that your fancy boots aren’t nice, or anythin’!”

Smug, Sam replied, “Thank you, Garth! Give me a moment and I’ll have my shoes for you to compare with. As will, I’m sure, my brother.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “As he said, give me a moment.”

After handing over his new pointy boots, specially bought at a “Western outfitter’s store” without Sam’s knowledge, Dean tried on the new clothes, relieved he had not been called out as an Omega at least. He kept his shirt with the pockets for the sachets and dragged on the bland-brown cotton trousers that allowed him to use suspenders. A dark green canvas vest with wooden buttons fit over it fine, and he was still able to tie the simple brighter green cotton cravat at the neck.

By the time he had managed to get all of it on, there was a knock at his door. He opened it to find Sam in similar clothing but in gray and blues. “Don’t you look pretty,” he grinned, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed, amused at how the untailored trousers still sat a bit high on Sam’s ankle.

Sam glared at him, the “Dean, this isn’t funny” evident in his hazel eyes, as he brushed down the dark gray vest and tugged at his own dark blue cravat. “I look like a damn fool,” he muttered, fiddling with the suspenders that were stretched nearly to their full length.

“Well, at least you admit it,” Dean hummed, amused.

Giving Dean an exasperated look, Sam tugged at his shirt sleeves, as they stopped three inches too soon. “I think I’m just going to wear my own shirt,” he sighed.

“Sorry, fellas,” said a bright voice behind them, “Guess I was optimistic about our clothing choices.”

Charlie was watching them, wringing her hands a bit. “I should’ve thought of getting bespoke clothes with the tailor.”

“We really don’t have time,” Sam answered with a raised palm. “We don’t know how cold our trail already is… or where the woman has gone.”

“You said her name was Megan Masters?” At their nods, she scowled pensively. “I have some contacts at the railroad office I can talk to, they might have some information.”

“That would be great!” Sam enthused, tugging futilely at his sleeve as he turned. “I’ll get you her photograph.”

“How about I go with you?” Dean asked.

She smirked. “Not that I would mind but being barefoot out here is inviting a world of trouble, from snakes and scorpions to burrs and sharp stones. Best wait until Garth gets back.”

Dean looked down at his socked feet and sighed. “Right. Well, at least take the picture. And if possible, see if there’s a lead on her foreign companion. About yay tall? Blue eyes, dark hair?”

Charlie nodded and took the photo that Sam handed her, eyeing Megan and loosing a low appreciative whistle. “By damn, she’s a looker!”

“She’s about to be engaged,” Sam said sharply, his expression one of “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, she’s the target. Pure trouble and you should read the letter she left her Daddy.” Dean shook his head. “It’s impressive use of colorful language.”

Charlie hummed and shrugged. “A girl can look,” she grinned and winked, turning to walk down the narrow staircase. “Let me see if Ed and Harry got a look at her. I’ll be back for supper. Hope you boys are hungry!”

Dean huffed out a sigh as they heard the store’s doorbell ring. “She’s extremely lively.”

“She’s very Alpha, you mean,” Sam smirked, ignoring Dean’s glare. He rubbed a hand over his face and stifled a yawn. “I think I’m going to clean up and possibly nap. If she gets us some leads, we’ll be able to leave tomorrow.”

Dean nodded and kicked the trunk so it partially slid into Sam’s room. “Sleep tight, Sammy,” he grinned, as Sam gave him another nasty look for having almost hit his toes with the trunk.

“Ass,” Sam muttered to Dean’s closed door.


	4. Old El Paso

With the new boots from Garth, stomachs filled with warm eggs, bacon rashers, strong black coffee, and bread, the next day dawned pleasantly enough.

Charlie had returned with news that Ed and Harry _had_ seen the pair, but suspected the brothers wanted to speak to them themselves. It also gave Ed and Harry time to find the train records they recalled the fugitives were fleeing on.

“And they’re stopping here?” Dean asked in disbelief.

“Well, I also promised them breakfast if they showed up. Neither of them is married or mated, and they’re a bit weak at cooking, unlike Garth here.”

Garth waved slowly from the cup of coffee he was slowly savoring. The dining area upstairs was small indeed, but it fit them cozily. But Garth apparently had an excellent eye for things, as the boots he had returned with and had sat on the table for inspection were of good plain leather along with hats he had located in dark brown.

“So ya look less like ya fell out of a Bloomingdale’s Catalogue!”[1] He said, shoving the hat boxes at them, “I’ll collect from the boss later.”

“We can pay it,” Sam insisted, getting a nod from Garth. “Just give us the total cost.”                                       

As they drank their coffee and discussed the case a bit, the store bell rang agitatedly.

“Charlie? Alpha, you in here?” Someone asked.

“Just where else might she be?” One hissed.

“I don’t _know_ , Ed. That’s why I asked.” The other hissed back.

Charlie rolled her eyes. “Up here, fellas. We’re keeping your promised meal warm.”

There was a low hoot and stamping of feet as two young Beta men came barreling up the stairway, fighting each other as they went. One was a rather stocky dark blond with a full beard and spectacles, while the other was spry with lank, dark hair and brown eyes. They couldn’t have been more than 18 years old from their awkward frames.

“I was here first, Ed!”

“Like hell!”

Sam shot a look at Dean, absolutely questioning the reliability of their “witnesses.” Dean shrugged. He wanted to hear what they had to say first. Garth snorted and excused himself, sneaking off into his room with the last bit of his breakfast, it seemed.

By the time the stocky one had elbowed the thin one in the nose hard enough to make him howl and nearly fall off the staircase, the spectators were avoiding each other’s gazes in sheer embarrassment for the two.

“Fellas,” Charlie growled, full Alpha voice at work, “Git yer asses in those seats and settle down, or I’ll whoop the tar outta ya.”

All the Betas in the room immediately stood–or sat–straighter at the tone, but Dean forced himself not to react. His Omega instincts wanted to slide off the chair and onto his knees, to reveal his neck and show his submissiveness to that Alpha tone. He felt sweat gather at his hairline and drank deeply from his cup to cover his weakness.

The two young men scrambled to get in the open seats, pale from the Alpha command. Charlie planted herself next to them, jerking a thumb at each. “Glasses there is Ed. Scrawny is called Harry. They work part-time for the railway, so when trains come in, they help take tickets and assign people to their next destination’s train.”

“That’s us,” the scrawny one, Harry, said proudly. “We’ll get ya where yer going!”

“How about you just get us to the point,” Dean said.

Ed rolled his eyes. “Sure! Charlie said you were on the lookout for two criminals? A blonde and a dark-haired foreigner?”

“That’s right.”

Harry looked over at Sam at that. “The blonde woman, well, she was pretty feisty. Smelled strong like violets and stuff, really fussy. The man was just being kind to her and let her do as she pleased. I remember his ticket because he had a funny accent, even for around here.”

“Yeah, the woman was pretty, but not noticeable if she hadn’t been so awful. The guy was nice, dressed well, and his accent was kinda like a French or Spanish accent, like proper Spanish, y’know? But he was headed to El Paso, I remember.”

“Me too! El Paso!” Harry grinned and nudged Ed.

“What about the woman? You remember where she was off to?” Sam asked.

“Uh,” Ed rubbed the back of his neck, “She was mean and mouthy, but I might have heard she was heading south.”

“South?”

Ed turned to Dean. “She might be headed to Mexico, if she’s on the run.”

Sam heaved a heavy, put-upon sigh while Dean sat back and glared at the open log ceiling. “Well, shit.”

“Oh!” Harry sat up straighter and pointed at Dean. “She called him ‘Angel’!”

“Is that his name?”

Both men shrugged. “Maybe? I don’t remember seeing that name on the books, though.”

Ed added, “I think it was something odd with a ‘C,’ but I can’t remember.”

Charlie leaned into the tablespace. “You brought the books like I asked you to, right?”

Harry nodded while Ed scrabbled with his bag. “But we gotta bring them back soon. Next train out is in three hours.”

“Headed to…”

“El Paso,” Harry said, as Ed put the heavy waybill book on the table. “But I don’t recommend going there. It’s become a boomtown with the railroad going through.”

“Like here?” Sam asked with amusement.

“Oh no,” Harry scratched his beard. “Things used to be nice down in El Paso. Used to be quiet with all the people being Indians, traders, and Mexicans. Now, with all the travelers? It’s all saloons and gambling joints.”

“Cheapest bed-houses, too,” Ed snickered as he trailed his finger down the list of names. “Even got one of them Omega brothels! But that’s to–“

“Did you find the name?” Sam asked hotly, although his eyes were on Dean, who had paled.

“Oh! Here it is! Odd name! Castiel Crush..nick?”

“Here, let me look!” Harry grabbed the book, ignoring Ed’s protests. “Oh, yeah! Crew-sha-nick?”

Charlie rolled her eyes and grabbed it from both of them. “Castiel Krushnic,” She said sharply, showing Sam and Dean the entry. “Looks like his destination was El Paso.”

“And the woman?”

“Looks like she signed it under a false name…. Nichole Miner?” Sam replied, pointing out the signature above the Castiel guy with similar handwriting as the letter she had written.

“It’s a lead,” Dean said, slapping his hand against the table.

“A lead,” Sam sighed in relief, handing the book back. “Thank you for your assistance,” he nodded towards the two other Betas, “We appreciate it.”

“Now, get! The both of you! Before Ed’s father gets wind you took his paperwork!”

“But what about _breakfast_?” Whined Ed.

“You _promised_ us, Alpha!” Whinged Harry.

Charlie sighed and looked like her patience was being sorely tried. “I’ll send Garth over with it, okay? Now go on before your real boss beats the tarnation out of you!”

Both Betas grinned and happily took off, their boots pounding on the wooden stairs like stampeding cattle. “Hope she gives us some of that honey bread Garth makes!”

“Hopes she gives us extra rashers! Papa is _so_ stingy!”

The bell rang furiously as the men rushed out, and Dean burst out laughing. “Well, they’re certainly something!”

Charlie sighed. “They are that.” She eyed him from across the table. “So what’s the plan, fellas?”

“We have a name and a lead.” Sam gulped down his coffee and put the cup carefully down. “I say we get on the next train south, hit El Paso.”

Dean nodded, fiddling with his fork. “I agree. I think we’ve got ourselves covered here.”

Charlie snorted and dropped into her seat. “Make sure you change any paper money into coins, or you might not get too far.” She smiled. “You might also want to ditch the trunk. Travel lightly.”

Dean grinned back. “Trunk stays with us.”

“Yeah, plus who knows how long we’re going to be in El Paso. We might need some of those items.” Sam added as he stood.

“Well, Garth will go find at least one more set of normal clothing,” Charlie said, also standing, “And I believe we have some holsters that will fit you both.”

“You sell holsters?”

She winked at Dean. “General store, my friend. Most folk don’t want to go to several stores to find goods.”

Dean shook his head and chuckled lightly. “Well, we’re grateful to you.”

“I know.”

 **EL PASO**  

> _Shocked and alarmed, and remembering my teaching about law and order, I stepped forward and said, “Gentlemen, would you see the man murdered?” **Not a man moved.**_
> 
> _The next day “Uncle Ben” Dowell gave me this advice: “My young friend, when you see anything of that kind going on in El Paso, don’t interfere. It is not considered good manners here.” ~William Wallace Mills, 1901_

There was nothing truer than the Beta boys’ comments about El Paso, Texas.

Arriving in the town was a shock to the system. Charlie had warned them that the population had spiked with the railroads in 1881 through 1882. The town (primarily made of mining and gambling pursuits), she said, was now chaotic and prospering.

Emphasis, she repeated solemnly, on the _chaotic_.

But if the Winchesters had been expecting another New Town like Albuquerque, they were sorely disappointed. El Paso was extremely rough around the edges, despite having a large population for a frontier town and newly-made border city built on the intersection of railroads from north to south and east to west.

When their train finally arrived, they immediately heard shots being fired and wild whoops of joy. Sam dragged Dean back in when he stuck his head out to look and nearly caught a bullet for it.

An older man, an Alpha it seemed from his haircut and confidence, smiled at them wryly and tipped his wide-brimmed hat. “Welcome to the Six-Shooter Capital. Don’t get shot now, y’hear?” He quickly disembarked and, head down, made for the main depot building at a brisk stroll.

Dean, however, looked inordinately pleased for some reason. Or, Sam fathomed with a groan, a very particularly dime-western obsessed reason.

They waited until the shooting stopped a bit (or, really, just slowed down) and disembarked before the train was set to go off to its next destination.

On the platform, being eyed by some rough-looking men in cowboy wear and being watched over by a rather nervous-looking porter, was their trunk. They descended and walked along to their trunk confidently, especially as both had holsters and full cartridge belts. At least, confidently until Sam stepped in something that squelched horribly and he grunted with disgust as he lifted his foot.

His boot sole was thickly covered in horse apples, and he groaned looking at the sheer amount.

Dean smirked. “You know what that is?” He asked, pointing at the stinky, coated boot bottom.

“Yeah, it’s horse shi–“

“Authenticity,” Dean said merrily, chuckling at his brother’s expense, and patting him lightly on the shoulder before stepping by him.

“He _has_ to stop reading those dime westerns,” Sam gritted as he dragged his foot to get rid of the worst of the mess.

At the platform, Dean handed over the ticket that let them take the trunk, eyes on the filthy men covered in dirt and what might’ve been coal dust, while Sam continued to scrape his boot. “Sam, any day now,” he called out as Sam finally caught up. Sam grumbled about horses but and took up the other side. Dean made a low noise in his throat and subtly jerked his chin at the filthy, grinning men. They were also wearing cartridge belts and six-shooters, and none of them looked as shiny and new as the Winchester brothers’ belts.

“Y’all traveling through, or aching to stay?” One of them asked with a black mouth and missing teeth.

The second one, stockier and shorter, guffawed. “Now don’t scare off the pretty one! He might be of use later on!”

All three wheezed out laughter, following the Brothers with their eyes. Their gazes felt sticky as honey on their backs. Sam really didn’t like how closely they were being watched and asked, “Reckon they’d try and kill us out in the open?”

“Maybe. Charlie said the law is light around here. Mayors get switched out like chamber pots, too. Just keep an eye out.”

“And what did she call that hotel?”

“She said the Harvelle Hotel. Just a bit further down.”

They walked with the trunk between them, ignoring the greedy looks at their trunk got them from the milling crowds or the constant lusty ogling Dean got even when Sam turned and glared at the offender.

Dean also glared at them openly. An Omega wouldn’t have glared back, but Sam knew Dean couldn’t shrink against the disgusting masses for a moment because his weakness could get him killed or worse: raped and forcibly mated.

As Charlie had told them, the Harvelle Hotel was a narrowly-built building, tucked between a bakery and what looked like an upscale haberdashery. There were bullet holes in the haberdashery’s window, though, so Sam wasn’t certain that it was even open. There was no “open” sign, that was sure.

The Harvelle Hotel was moderate inside as well, somewhere between classy and comfortable. The entry had a small waiting room, but further back, past a couple of heavy-looking doors with fancy faceted-glass windows, there looked to be a bar. They could hear the low tones of a piano playing along with dishes and utensils being used.

There was a small rug in front of the check-in counter, while the ceiling was done up in simple tin tiles. It was homier than they expected, with warm deep red and gold flocked wallpaper and a stained-glass window above the entrance that said “Harvelle.” They both paused to glare at the narrow stairwell that led upstairs, and Dean muttered, “Everyone must be thin as a string and short as a monkey to get on around here.”

“Just used to it,” said a woman’s voice near them. The guys turned and found an average height woman of some fading beauty standing by the main desk, wiping her hands with a dusting cloth. Her eyes were intelligent and evaluating, her light brown hair, faded to gray at the temples, was piled artistically on top of her head. Her dark-green dress wasn’t new, but it showed care in its age. Sam inwardly cringed and hoped Dean’s disguise would hold because this was the face of a woman who brooked no bullshit.

Like a Beta Bobby in skirts.

“Can I help you, gents?” She asked mildly, stowing the cloth away behind the counter.

“We’re, uh…”

“Charlie Middleton sent us,” Dean interrupted, “She suggested you were a Pinkerton-friendly establishment.”

The woman eyed him before looking closely at Sam. “She did, did she?”

“Uh, she said you were an… agent?” They both flashed their badges, which she ignored to get behind the counter herself, touching her hair and brushing at her skirt for dust.

The woman scoffed. “Hardly! What would an old Beta woman like myself be doing strike breaking and hunting down criminals?”

“Good at it?” Dean suggested.

That got her quirking a smile and even a small chuckle. “I’m Ellen Harvelle, proprietress of this fine establishment. The one you’re thinking of is my husband, Bill.” She pulled a large registration book out. “Unfortunately, he’s been assigned to some work in Colorado, so he’s not here, but my girl Joanna Beth and I can see you settled.”

The brothers nodded to each other, and Sam said, “That sounds wonderful, thank you.”

Ellen shook her head as in disbelief and handed them a piece of pencil. “Don’t thank me yet, boys. El Paso is a feisty town, full of gamblers, whores, and bad men soaked in whiskey. Just try not to get dead, you hear me?”

 “We gotcha.” Dean smiled reassuringly and tipped his hat at her. She gave him a flatly unimpressed look as Sam signed them in, and she reluctantly handed over two keys.

“These rooms here are generally for longer staying folks who don’t have a place to live or can’t be bothered to find one. We should really be called a boarding house but…” She sighed and pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, we still rent out room by the night. Just rarely, nowadays.”

Ellen’s brown eyes flicked up towards the second floor. “There are a couple of grumpy old coots who’ve taken up residence up there. Don’t go bothering them. Rufus and Frank are both cantankerous old bastards, old unmated Alphas that’ve got more bark than bite left in them. Marv is just quiet, but he can be mean as tarnation, so you stay clear of that old Beta too.”

She arched a questioning brow at them and they both murmured agreement: leave the old coots alone.

“Lastly, you get breakfast and dinner. Lunch and supper are up to you to get, although our kitchen is open til 9 or so. Bar is open later, but I don’t know if you want to engage with the degenerates that come and play faro, blackjack, or poker?”

“No, ma’am,” Sam replied solemnly, “We are not gambling men.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dean grumbled, fingering his room key. He killed at poker. Alphas and Betas constantly underestimated him as an Omega.

She huffed and waved them towards the stairs. “I’ll send up my boy Ash to help you get situated, but it’s getting close to lunchtime, and we get some of the fancy office folks in here to eat in peace.” She scowled for a moment. “Well, he might be up there if he got on Devereaux’s request quick as a rabbit like I told him to do.”

‘Thank you, Ma’am.” This time they both doffed their hats and proceeded to try and carry the trunk up the narrow stairs, Dean leading the way up, leaving Sam to smack his knees against the trunk’s corners with a curse.

“Why are these stairs so narrow?” Sam griped, whacking his elbow against the wallpapered wall.

“Mostly to prevent unwanted visitors,” a young man said from the top of the stairwell. “I’d’ve help bring that up, _amigos_ , if you’d just been a bit more patient.”

Ash was exactly what people thought of as “western,” with his oily face and hair, his stained shirt and half-torn denim trousers. He had a dark kerchief around his neck, but Dean was uncertain if it was naturally dark, or if he’d been sweating on it too long.

He grinned, missing a tooth up front. “Sorry to look so rough. Ma had me cleaning out the stables with Benny and that’s never a clean job. Then Mr. Devereaux hollered for me to pick up his thunder mug, so…”

The smell of manure wafted over the boys and they both fought gagging. “It’s fine,” muttered Dean as he clambered through the opening first, “We just weren’t prepared for El Paso to be s–”

“Fragrant,” Sam interrupted, giving Dean a dirty look.

“Woo-ee!” Ash whistled, “You’re pretty tall there, _amigo_! Ain’t seen many taller than me around here!” He reached around Dean to grab the trunk’s handle and helped Sam lift it up. “Jeez, what’s in here? Gold bricks?”

“Hardly,” Sam replied, hefting from his end. The trunk landed with a muffled thump and Sam pulled himself with the extended railings. He eyed the opening. “Now, this makes no sense. How is this supposed to help with security?”

Ash grinned at him and lifted two parts of the extended rails, pulling them over the entrance, and locked them over the opening like bars. “First line of defense. There’s a solid bit too that goes over them, but that’s pretty heavy and bulky and I’d hate to take it out.”

Sam waved him off and Ash put the rails back. “It’s fine I get it.”

Dean asked, “Is there a need for that? I mean, what about fire and all that?”

Ash shrugged with one shoulder and bent over to get one of the trunk’s handles again. “Ma’s right paranoid about fire. We don’t like to talk about it.”

Sam thinned his lips and lifted his side of the trunk easily as Ash guided them to the first room. “Here we are! Room 104 for you…” He pointed at Dean. “And 106 for you!”

He glanced down the hall and whispered, “Now, Marv is probably asleep right now. Fancies himself a writer and he stays up all night, so keep it down or he’ll be breathing down your necks like a mad cow.”

“What about the other two?” Sam asked, curious.

Ash leaned back a bit and hummed. “Well, Mr. Devereaux is more like to yell at you for a minute about not taking him alive and swearing he’s not going back to be the government’s devil henchman and _then_ shoot you.” He scratched at his scruffy chin, which sounded like sandpaper. “I’d just stay away from Mr. Turner, iffn I were you. He’s like to just shoot you in the nethers just ‘cause he’s meaner than a stepped-on rattlesnake.”

Dean whistled lowly. “Alright, avoid Mr. Turner.”

Ash nodded and lowly added, “Mr. Turner’s good with the natives, y’know? Speaks all sorts of languages like Apache and Navajo, and he makes deals with them for goods for furs and stuff. Mr. Devereaux is a clever old weapons designer, but he’s gone off the reservation, if you get my meaning. Thinks the government is gonna find him and make him design more weapons or something.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what he’s talking about, but he’s nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

“Right, avoid Mr. Devereaux, too.” Dean speared Sam a “what the hell” look and Sam shrugged.

Ash grinned and slapped Dean on the shoulder. “No worries, _amigo_! Just mind your business and stay outta their way, _comprende?_ Now I gotta go finish cleaning up before ma finds me yapping. I ain’t got a lot of spare time, but I got a break comin’ up after this.” Looking immensely proud of himself, he admitted shyly, “I’m working on making a camera that can make moving pictures.” He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck as he leered. “Old Edison was too much of a thief for my liking, so I came back here. Me and this guy Tesla got into it with that phony over some stuff he kept patenting as _his_ and we both left a few months later.”

Sam sputtered. “You? You worked with Edison?”

Ash smirked. “You make it sound like it was hard to get in with that ajee auger. He’s crookeder than a drunkard’s stumble.”

“You and Edison,” Sam muttered in disbelief as Ash ambled down the stairway.

Ash turned and–with a wink and a thumb brushing across his nose–chortled, “Do me a favor and if anyone ever wonders, that old man goes down like a sack of rocks when punched in the face.”

Leaving the Brothers stupefied, he wandered off. “He punched Edison,” Sam murmured in disbelief.

Dean slapped him in the shoulder. “And now we know.” He eyed his room entrance and sighed. “I say we get some of this country dust off us and then figure on our plans from here on out.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, I didn’t think El Paso was going to be so big. Besides, we don’t know it like we do Chicago.”

“That is no lie, little brother. I hope this comes as easily as Albuquerque, though.”

Snorting, Sam replied, “Unlikely. We don’t have a Charlie here.”

“True enough.”

 

[1] https://www.amazon.com/Bloomingdales-Illustrated-Catalog-Bloomingdale-Brothers/dp/0486257800/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&qid=1453947670&sr=8-1&keywords=bloomingdale%27s+illustrated&linkCode=sl1&tag=kriholaut-20&linkId=19e8aa66f2fbbceca76661d158aed7e0


	5. Boomtown Blues

After having cleaned off some of the road (Dean felt this quite literally when he stared at the muddy basin of water and brown washcloth), the Brothers convened in Sam’s room to discuss their next move.

Dean took a seat on the trunk, while Sam took the desk chair. The room was identical to his own, and he wondered how his gigantic brother was going to sleep in the bed that was made for one person of middling height, not a troll in nice trousers. Heaven knew that he barely fit on his own version of the bed.

“So what we should do is maybe poke around a bit, get a feel for the place,” Sam was saying as Dean snapped back to his senses. Perhaps he was more tired than he thought if he was drifting away thinking about beds.

“You want to just wander around?”

Sam gave him an aggravated look, thinned lips and all. “Were you not listening to me at all?”

Shrugging, Dean replied, “No. Not really. I was trying to figure out how your gargantuan butt was gonna fit on that tiny bed tonight.”

Sam turned his glare on the furniture in question. “I’m going to worry about that later. Right now, we need some sort of idea how to go about this. Like I said, we don’t have a useful ally like Charlie here.”

Dean hummed agreement. “And I’m not sure that Mrs. Harvelle, not being an agent, would be so kind as to help us like Charlie.”

“True. But I bet she could still point us in the right direction.”

“I’ll let you butter her up. Old ladies seem to just _love_ you.”

Sam cursed under his breath as a blush forced its way up from his collar, tinging his ear tips red. “They do not.”

Dean grinned. “Oh, what about the Widow Gertrude? She was _so_ grateful you found her tawny little bitch, Bela.” He batted his eyelashes at Sam, who rolled his eyes.

“One time, Dean. That was one time.”

“You smelled like sex and shame, little brother,” Dean chuckled, enjoying his discomfiture. “Oh, but let’s not forget the spinster twins, Heddy and Beverly LaCroix!”

Grimacing, Sam muttered, “They were just two lonely old Betas, Dean!”

Waggling his eyebrows, Dean replied, “Yeah they were!”

Signing, Sam pinched his nose at the bridge and murmured, “Fine. I’ll speak to Mrs. Harvelle. That means you’re going to have to find the local law and see what they know.”

“First we need to find out if there _is_ local law.”

“True. Guess we might as well go down, get some food and information.”

“Let’s get food first,” Dean said as he stood and stretched, loving that it didn’t bother him to do so. “I’m starving!”

“You’re always starving,” Sam lowly griped as he grabbed his hat and waited then waited in the hall for Dean to fetch his.

They hadn’t found any town coats that fit them in such short notice, but their usual ones from Chicago would have to do. Presentable for company, they marched downstairs, only catching a few curse words from behind closed doors that echoed down the hall.

They were greeted by Mrs. Harvelle (“Please, call me Ellen. The Pinkertons are like _family_.”) at the front desk and filed through the fancy double doors into the saloon.

The saloon was also quite nice for such a small hotel. The bar gleamed and the bottles behind the barkeep were surprisingly diverse. There were a few stools near the bar but many more tables for two or four people left open. Behind a dividing rope were the gambling tables. Dean spied Faro, Black Jack, and Poker. Perhaps the single most surprising thing was a cleaned-up Ash behind the bar scrubbing a glass with a bit of cloth.

Dean strolled over amiably and Ash raised a hand in greeting. “Good afternoon, sir! Get you something to drink?”

Grinning, Dean ordered two beers and whatever they had for luncheon.

“Benny is our resident cook.” Ash pulled the beers from a large barrel. “He made some stew this morning and I believe there’s some left, if that’ll suit ya?”

“That’s fine.”

Ash set the beers in front of Dean with a smirk. “Just take a seat. I’ll bring it out to you.”

Dean took the two beers and took a seat with his back to the wall and his eyes on the door. Removing his hat, he settled down a bit. The beer wasn’t bad, a bit warmer and flatter than what they got in Chicago, but still refreshing. He eyed the rest of the room: two gents in what looked like upscaled business sorts. A young lady with what looked to be her mother eating their stew delicately. No one else was in, but it was that odd hour of the day between lunch and supper, so it made sense there were few patrons.

Signs on the wall discouraged gun use, mentioned no “Ladies of the Night” permitted on the premises, and lunch was free if a bonded whiskey shot was purchased.

Sam walked in a moment later, looking somewhat riled as he removed his own hat and settled into the seat next to Dean, his own eyes on the door. “That Ellen is a firecracker,” he croaked, tugging at his kerchief a bit. “Drives a hard bargain too.”

Dean chuckled. “Did she swindle you, a lawyer?”

Sam shot him an aggravated look as he set his hat down and tugged a beer towards himself. “More like anything I asked was like being cross examined. She’s a mighty sharp one. Too bad she’s not a Pinkerton.”

“I bet.” He watched Sam sip the beer with a perplexed expression and then coughed lightly, clearing his throat. “She, uh, suggested we be careful wandering in. That there are pockets of immigrants and just lowlifes about.”

“Immigrants, huh? Anything on our guy?”

Sam shook his head, his damp hair clinging to his forehead a bit. “Mentioned there’s a row of what she thinks are Russian immigrants who took up residence, but…” His lips curled in disapproval, “That they all pretty much look the same to her.”

“Huh.” Dean took a swallow of beer and, wiping his lip, asked, “What does that even mean?”

Sam shrugged, and they both watched a burly man walk up with two bowls with spoons held in one meaty hand and what looked like a plate of bread in the other. The stew was dark brown, steaming slightly, and smelled thickly of rich venison stock. Carrots and potatoes chunks floated in it, along with what was probably garlic and onions, while the bread was thick slices of wheat with what looked like butter on it. It all looked delicious.

“Yer food, gents,” the man said with a bit of an accent. It reminded Dean of some boatmen who traded in Chicago, coming up the Mississippi from Louisiana. “Tonight, the meal is fried trout and potatoes, so ya may not wanna miss that.”

“Sounds delicious,” Sam said with enthusiasm, already reaching for a spoon and slice of cold bread. “We’ll be here!”

Dean rolled his eyes. “My gargantuan brother and I are on the brink of starvation,” he explained, and the husky blond with the trimmed beard and gray eyes chuckled at it. “You must be Benny?”

A bushy eyebrow shot up and the man slowly nodded. “Y’all are the new gents upstairs. Ash was talkin’ fast about ya.”

Sam moaned around his spoon, ignoring Dean’s embarrassed expression.

“That’s right. We’re here for a while. Heard this was a good place to stay.”

Benny nodded again, this time thoughtfully. “The saloon is called ‘The Roadhouse.’ Ellen has cleaned her up but good, but it used to be a small place in the middle of a small town that catered to stragglers, strays, cowboys, and such.” He scratched his chin with blunt fingers. “We still get the occasional straggler and stray, but since the railroad came in…well, she don’t have no truck with wild drunken men and their _petite_ _paramours_. She says she wants nothing to do with disreputables.” He shook his head. “Just keep your head down, gents. Don’t be messing with the miners and cowboys. They’re a bad lot.”

He knocked on the table with his thick knuckles and ambled off, heading back into the kitchen through the back door.

Ash grinned at them and gave them a head nod before seriously wiping down the bar.

“It’s not too unlike Chicago,” Sam said around a fat bit of carrot. “There are neighborhoods we wouldn’t stray into without a weapon or two.”

Dean beamed with anticipation, breaking off a bit a bread to dunk in the thick brown stew. “I look forward to it! Some adventure at last!”

The rest of the day was spent meandering about the city, or at least within a stone’s throw of the hotel. El Paso certainly deserved its name of Six-Shooter Capital, with rowdy men walking along the dirt streets and scantily dressed women trying to lure them in. The main avenues of the city were made up of uncountable saloons and numerous brothels, very often the same establishments. Billiards was also generally offered, but they didn’t want to consider what might actually occur on the green-felt covered tables. They were especially thick around the train station, which didn’t surprise the Brothers.

“Bet it’s not billiards,” Sam muttered as they passed the tenth place to have “Billiards” painted on their shop window. A thick-waisted woman in a rather ragged corset and hose waved at them, her painted face unable to hide the blackened teeth and lines of hard living on her face. She was in her thirties, if she were a day.

“This is all so much…germier… than I imagined,” Dean groaned into his palm, trying not to be sick.

“I told you those dime westerns were going to warp your mind.” Sam pointed a bit to the left. “Look, didn’t you say you wanted a pocket watch?”

There was a small jewelry store, just a tiny wooden storefront really, tucked in-between a tailor and a shoe store. It was almost a closet, it was so little.

They walked in and thankfully the space opened up a bit. There were a few display cases with items in silver and perhaps copper. The man who peered at them over round spectacles had neatly brushed brown hair pomaded down, a faded but respectable shopkeeper’s outfit, and a fine mustache that had to be admired and seen to be believed. It was incredibly long, like steer’s horns, and the tips also looked to be twisted tightly and pomaded. He also kept his hands under the counter.

“Oh! Oh! OH!” Dean squealed under his breath, “Sam, that’s a _handlebar mustache_ like Wyatt Earp is supposed to have!”

Sam turned to the side to hide his eye roll, while Dean strolled up to the man and said, “That is a mighty fine mustache, sir! How long did it take to grow it?”

The man stiffened for a moment before stroking the thing with long fingers, and Dean heard a hammer being uncocked under the countertop. His face relaxed and he smiled genuinely.

“Keen eye, sir!” He babbled on about upkeep and middle stages, and how he had to sleep with protection on it, while Dean made the right appreciative sounds. “Learned to sleep on my back, I did,” he said proudly.

“That’s amazing, really.” Licking his lips, Dean moved forward a bit. “Actually, it wasn’t that fine bit of facial hair that called us in, but that I need a new pocket watch. Something in silver?”

The shopkeeper’s clever brown eyes roved over Dean for a moment–taking in the better than average town coat, the newer appearance of his overcoat and clothing–before he nodded. “Now, there’s a bit o a shortage of pocket watches right now, as my new shipment hasn’t come in, but I might have something that would do you. The problem is I’m afraid that it’s not working correctly. It’s been a mystery for the last couple of days.”

He leaned down while Sam wandered back over (he had gone to look at the copper rings) and he brought up a medium-sized box. Inside was lined with velvet and nestled in that were two pocket watches.

One was like new, with a smooth silver cover and working watch.

The other was older, the front bearing a five-pointed star with a sword through the back and wings hovering over the star. There were words arched upwards at the bottom that looked like ангел Кастиэль. He pressed the small release and hummed with interest. Within, the clockwork was indeed not working, but there was a long engraving on the inside cover in a language Dean didn’t know, but, like the words etched on the outside, looked like Russian.

Even though the clockwork wasn’t working, although it looked personalized to someone, there was something about the watch that just caught Dean’s interest.

He liked the way the wings hovered protectively. He liked the plain clock face with Roman numerals and the long chain that accompanied it. He liked the star and the sword, how it looked tough and a little menacing.

“It was sold to me by a foreigner,” the guy went on, taking the watch in hand and pointing at the inscriptions, “Said something about starting over.” Shrugging, he pushed the pocket watch back towards Dean, who picked it up reverently. There was, bizarrely, a faint aroma to it that reminded him of rich forests near the Campbell ranch. It made his skin itch in a pleasant way, like he was remembering a precious childhood memory.

The shopkeeper was watching him closely and he heard Sam say something but was a bit too entranced to pay attention.

“I want it,” he said, ignoring what was probably his brother’s protests. “I know it doesn’t work, which defeats the purpose but…” Dean scowled at the watch, running his thumb over the casing.

He felt Sam’s shrug and dragged his gaze back to the shopkeeper.

“I can make you a fine deal on it, sir, considering it doesn’t work.”

Dean slapped Sam on the back and murmured, “Handle it.”

He was busily looking over the watch, noting there was a small hole in the side like a keyhole. Humming, he clipped the piece onto his vest and tucked the watch into his vest pocket. His other watch had been inherited from his mother, a tiny time piece that hung from a delicate pin. He’d left that in Chicago and had all but forgotten about a watch until they had arrived in El Paso. Sam was the one who kept their schedule.

Sam handed over the money, and, because he couldn’t help himself, Dean asked, “Do you know if this foreigner is still around? This watch looks like it may be missing a winding key.”

The shopkeeper nodded. “I did try some other keys, but none fit properly. I think he might be over by the Schultz Brother’s Store. That’s where a lot of…” He coughed genteelly and averted his gaze. “...well, Jews and the like tend to congregate.”

Neither brother was comfortable with the way the man said that, but they pried the location of the Schultz Brother’s Store, along with some information on why they would find the foreigner there.

“There are a lot of… _Slavs_ moving into that area, away from persecution, especially in Russia since Alexander II was assassinated. Alexander III isn’t as liberal. Or so I’ve been told,” he replied stiffly.

“I heard about that,” Sam mumbled, “There have been some attempts on Alexander III.”

The shopkeeper nodded. “The man spoke English well but with a heavy accent. Word is from that foreigner that several members of some radical group are to be hanged for the plot.”

“Interesting.”

“Yeah, the plot thickens,” Dean snorted, covering his mouth with his forearm.

The shopkeeper gave him a quizzical look and Sam coughed for attention. Both forced Dean to realize hiding his snort was an Omega move, and he pulled down his forearm quickly. He scowled hard and harrumphed a few times. “No one appreciates a good joke.”

Sam rolled his eyes hard enough he was looking over his shoulder, while the shopkeeper frowned a bit, but–having been paid–gave them an awkward smile and nod. “Of course, sir. Will that be all?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The shopkeeper handed over the small bag with the pocket watch’s box inside, a small bottle of silver cleaner, and a specialized cloth.

As they exited, Sam looked at the watch chain dangling from Dean’s vest with concern. “Are you certain you want _that_ one? I mean, it doesn’t work…”

“I think I observed that fact already. Not like I’m a detective or…no, _wait_! I _am_ a detective!”

Sam’s lips twisted in annoyance as Dean stuck his tongue out at him, causing him to walk into someone as they stepped out of a saloon.

“Whoa there!” A tall black man was holding Dean’s arms up, his dark eyes flickering over Dean’s face and ears. Never was Dean so pleased to have his neck covered, and he shivered to think of this man eyeing his neck.

The man reeked of unbathed Alpha, all dirt and a thickly-ingrained pheromone stench. His clothing was in good repair and he wore a good enough hat to go with his worn-in boots. He grinned at Dean as Sam pulled him out of reach brusquely, the man’s rough hand scraping along his dark bristly jaw in appreciation.

“Well, well, well…Ain’t seen you here before,” he purred, even as he put his hand on his hip to reveal a holstered Colt on a cartridge belt that had seen better days. It also pulled his duster away from his chest, revealing a heavily used US Marshal’s badge hanging off his dusty black vest.

Sam stepped between them without thinking, just thrusting his hand out. “You must be the local marshal,” he said pleasantly.

The man stared at Sam’s hand as if it were a claw from Hell and nodded. “Well, in this area right now. The last marshal got himself killed by these bastards.” Grimly, he mimed being shot in the head. “Snuck up on ole Kubrick when he was coming out of the privy.  Just no fucking honor among these leeches, shooting a man after taking a shit.”

The Brothers winced and Sam took back his hand. “Tough crowd,” he said with a shaky smile.

“You betcha.” He turned his attention back to Dean, his focus becoming smarmy and unpleasant. “The name’s Gordon Walker. And who might you be, sweetheart?”

Sam started to growl but Dean pushed him out of the way. “The name ain’t sweetheart,” he said, coming toe-to-toe with the ass, “and I don’t owe you a name for your discourtesy.”

Gordon huffed, using the back of his hand to tilt his hat up and swipe at his brow. “Well now, ain’t you a firecracker?” He grinned, again scratching his stubbled jaw with his hand. “You smell like Alpha, all cedar and cloves under there. But…” He leaned in a bit into Dean’s space. “That face and those lips definitely scream _Omega_.”

Sam growled again, but there was a click of a hammer being pulled. Neither Sam nor Walker had noticed Dean pull his gun, his eyes focused on Walker’s expression as he nudged the gun muzzle up a notch, forcing Walker to lift his chin a bit.

“I don’t care if I look, smell, or present Omega,” Dean growled through bared teeth, “I will shoot you dead for even _thinking_ about touching me.”

Walker held up his hands in surrender, smiling woefully, and stepped away from Dean. “I got it, Alpha. But you might want to think about what shooting a US Marshal would mean.”

Dean snorted, keeping his gun steady. “My brother is a lawyer. Do. Not. Mess. With. Us.”

Walker’s gaze slid over to Sam, the hand on his gun, the cold fury in his eyes, and chuckled. “You best watch yourselves. This is El Paso, not some civilized Eastern town.” Baring his own teeth with a growl, he took another step back. “Playing for Aces and Eights, ain’t ya?”[1]

Laughing, he turned his back on them and strode away, his boot steps echoing on the wooden walkway.

Dean swallowed hard and slid his iron home. “He just threatened to shoot us in the back, didn’t he?”

“I don’t think he cares from which direction he shoots us. He’s nuttier than a bag of peanuts.”

Chuckling, Dean stretched out his shoulder and rubbed his sleeve against his brow. He was sweating a bit from tension, the urge to shoot the man in the ass as he walked away extremely high and puerile to boot. “Calling me _Omega_ ,” he snarled under his breath and was forced into moving when his brother slapped him lightly on the shoulder.

“Come now, we still have other areas to investigate.”

* * *

 

[1] Wild Bill Hitchcock was shot from behind while holding 2 black aces & 2 black 8s, earning this hand the nickname “[Dead Man’s Hand](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dead_man%27s_hand).”


	6. Dražen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Dražen is a Czech-Slovakian name for “Beloved.”
> 
>  **EDIT** : received some Russian assistance! Thanks, Jesus_Of_Suburbia for helping me out!! I'll be using дорогой ("dear" although I prefer "beloved.")

 

The rest of the afternoon was thankfully uneventful, although Dean had spent a lot of time sneaking peeks at his new pocket watch. The words on the bottom of the front plate were large and somehow alluring, and he found himself thumbing over the engraving more than a few times.

“You’re going to wear that down,” Sam said as he tied on a clean neckerchief, his eyes on his brother’s thoughtful expression as he dragged his fingers over it again.

“It doesn’t look like a new piece, so I doubt my touching it a few times will do much,” Dean shot back, cheeks pink as he put the watch away. “Are you almost done, Samantha? You take longer than a maiden.”

Sam ignored him and finished with his neckerchief, a new one with fancy threads woven through it so it gleamed copper in the light. “Looks good, though, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get a move on. I’m starving!”

Ignoring the whining, Sam grabbed his hat off the stand and tugged open the door. “After you, dear brother mine.”

Dean glared as he slouched out. “That’s just creepy. Stop that.”

The saloon area was much busier in the evening, with most of the tables occupied. Ash was again manning the bar, but a thin blonde woman, no more than her early twenties, was balancing a round tray and swishing about the tables with a sharp smile that promised violence in an instant.

She saw the Brothers enter and she hollered, “Anywhere you can find a seat! I’ll find ya!”

They both gave her an admiring look, as she was quite lovely, a younger version of Ellen Harvelle, and Dean muttered, “That must be the daughter.”

“Joanna Beth, I think she said.”

“She didn’t mention she was lovely.”

They watched as a hand tried to sneak under the woman’s half-length skirts, only to have the guy yelp and clutch his hand in shock. Joanna Beth turned on him, tiny incisors and all, and growled, “I might be a Beta, but, so help me, I will rip that paw right off ya!” She turned to finish serving, and Dean suspected he was the only one who saw her turn her ring back around.

“Feisty,” Sam observed with a whistle as they found a table that allowed them to keep an eye on the door.

“Daughter of a Pinkerton and Ellen Harvelle? I’m surprised she’s not made of nails and arsenic.”

They both chuckled, removed their hats, and watched Joanna Beth work, settling down another set of plates before huffing and making her way over to them. “What can I get you gents?”

“Heard there was trout and potatoes on the menu,” Dean said with a charming smile.

Joanna Beth eyed him narrowly. “It is,” she said, sticking her chin out, “But that’s not the only thing on it tonight. Sometimes Benny gets inspired and has soup or some such.”

Sam quirked a smile, staring at his hands.

Dean nodded. “Regardless, after his fine stew, we’ve been looking forward to this meal. We’ll have the trout! And house beer, if you would, Joanna Beth.”

Her lips curled. “It’s just Jo here. Ma would prefer me to go by Miss Harvelle, but I can’t imagine these fools knowing dung from wild honey, so best to keep it short.”

Chuckling and leaning in a bit, Dean suavely replied, “Well, Jo…” They watched a blush creep up her face at that. “We do know dung from wild honey, so if you prefer we call you Miss Harvelle, we definitely can.”

Flustered, Jo snorted, “God no. Jo is fine. Let me get you those meals and give Ash your order.”

She practically raced away and Sam smacked Dean lightly. “Don’t tease the poor woman. You know you don’t have any real interest.”

“I don’t know. She’s a lovely thing,” Dean said, stroking his jaw and watching her. She caught him looking and froze, looking like a deer caught in a hunter’s sight. “Must not be used to the gentlemanly thing.”

“Must not, because God knows you’re no gentleman,” Sam chuckled, brushing his hair out of his face and behind his ears.

“Better than most supposed gentlemen I’ve met.”

Shrugging with one shoulder, Sam shut up. They watched Jo get their drink order with a big wave from Ash. She brought it back quickly and efficiently, setting it before them. “Your food should be out shortly,” she said, keeping her gaze off Dean.

“Thank you, Miss Harvelle,” he said smoothly, smiling at her.

Her face turned red to her ears and she stammered, “N-now you stop that! J-just Jo, alright?”

“I understand, _Jo_.”

She fled again and Sam shook his head. “That’s just cruel. She’s obviously unfamiliar with gentle wiles being put her way.”

Dean grinned and winked, lifting his glass to his mouth. “Still got it!”

“I wish you’d have left it,” Sam muttered, sipping on his own beer.

They chatted idly about their day, mentioning the various parts of the city they had seen. The city was spread out quite a bit, with an estimated population of 2000 people. “Supposedly,” Dean interjected.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Fine, _supposedly_ 2000 people.”

“Still isn’t Chicago.” Dean smiled as Jo approached and placed their dishes of deep-fried fish and potatoes. She winked at him as she swished back to the kitchen, and Sam muttered, “That is not a woman to trifle with. She will slit your lying gullet.”

“I’m too cute to kill,” Dean said, already applying his fork to his food.

“You really believe that.”

Dean pouted, oil making his lips shiny. “I’m adorable.”

“Whatever you say, Dean.”

“Well, we still need to find this Cas guy.”

Sam shot him a look over his loaded fork. “You already gave him a nickname? We haven’t even found the guy!”

Shrugging, Dean waved his fork a bit. “That whole… Kesial, Kassial…”

“Castiel.”

Pointing his fork, Dean said, “Yes! Him! The name is too hard. Cas is easy.”

“You better hope so,” Sam muttered, sipping his beer.

The next morning, the Brothers were up and out early.

Although Dean had wanted to get in some poker, Sam had dragged him upstairs and reviewed the information they had, including about Marshal Walker.

While they talked, Dean had taken out the pocket watch and was, again, fondling it rather absently. He couldn’t seem to help himself with the piece, his eyes tracing the lines of the star.

“Dean, are you with me?”

Snapped out of his thoughts, Dean jerked and replied, “Uh, _yeah!_ Yes! I absolutely heard you.”

Sam gave him a sharp disbelieving look with a hint of disapproval, and Dean put the watch in his pocket.

“Yes, yes, fine. Let’s go.”

They decided on going over to the neighborhood mostly populated with Eastern Europeans, a great many Jews having fled persecution to set up businesses in the New World. Hopefully someone was either Russian or fluent in Russian enough to read the watch inscription. They could use it as a premise for looking for the Cas fellow.

It was all going to work out.

The streets here were busy with people doing business, trying to finish things up before the afternoon sun beat on them like they were drums. At that hour, with the sun creeping over the horizon just enough to lend some modicum of warmth, there were many piles of drunks out on the street, huddling for warmth. As they passed them, they stank of old sweat and bad whiskey, stale and rotten in their own fluids, and Dean, with his sensitive nose, shrank away from them. They were positively offensive.

A woman in lawman’s gear was walking by several of the piles and plying them with the boot, kicking them just hard enough to get them to grunt and hack up mucus, groaning and swearing at the treatment. “I don’t care, Zeb. Get you and yer boys up and the hell out of here!”

Someone made a rude gesture, and the dark-haired woman craned her neck for a moment like a mom about to smack her asshole child, before she pulled out her gun and began shooting at their feet. “I said _git!_ ” She snarled at them and they rolled around, scrambling to get away from the gunshots.

Dean elbowed Sam, who nodded, his eyes lit up with interest. Any of the men who turned to give the woman lip was nipped with the bullet, very often between their thighs, and that sent most of them swearing and reeling away fast enough.

The woman huffed and reloaded her gun.

Anywhere within hearing distance of the fracas, men were struggling awake and stumbling away. “I don’t care where you go, but just get off the damn street!” She shouted.

She turned and saw the Brothers staring at her. She shoved up her hat with the back of her hand and stared back. “Need something, gents?”

Sam blushed–to Dean’s surprise–and stammered, “A-are you the l-law around here?”

The woman had dark brown eyes and short cut hair with streaks of gray at the temples. She was lovely in a tough way, and she held her gun easily, like it was the palm of an old friend. “Name’s Jody Mills. I’m the temporary sheriff until they find someone proper.”

“Dean Winchester,” he said from the walkway, tipping his hat.

Sam stumbled off the walkway, flushing even harder, and held out his hand. “Um, Sam Winchester. We, uh, we were actually looking for you.”

She took his hand with a quirked eyebrow and shook it firmly. “Pleased to meet you.” She took her hand back and thrust her chin out a bit, leaning back a tad to keep eye contact with Sam. “So, what can I do for you this morning?”

Behind them, Dean watched the drunkards shamble off into different directions, a few piling into a wagon while two guys hitched a mule and groaned as they got onto the driving seat. A few fellas managed to scramble on top of horses and a couple groaned and stumbled back into hotels and brothels, presumably to sleep. Dean counted around 20 men of different ages.

Dean turned his attention back to Sam when he heard him say, “…and, uh, yeah! We can discuss that over lunch, perhaps?”

The woman smiled a warm, amused smile and nodded. “Alright, champ! I would love to know what you Pinkertons are doing in my neck of the woods. Meet you at Rosa’s Cantina? It’s on the edge of town but the food is completely worth it.”

Sam’s posture relaxed a bit and he nodded. “Certainly, Sheriff Mills. We’ll find our way.”

She winked at him and walked away, leaving Sam looking dumbstruck.

“Did you at least get directions to Schwartz Brothers?” Dean asked, thoroughly amused.

Sam, still watching the Sheriff’s back, hummed and nodded. “Yeah.”

Dean snorted out a laugh and smacked Sam hard on the back. “Looks like you got it bad, little brother. Got a thing for women in uniform?”

Sam turned towards Dean, rolling his eyes. “She just an attractive woman, Dean. She smells clean, like a Beta. She’s probably like me and has Alpha tendencies.”

“I bet,” Dean smirked, jerking his head back towards their route.

Sighing, Sam resettled his hat and led him away.

The Schultz Brother’s Store was built in the early days of El Paso. The Schultz Brothers had arrived in the mid-19th C to work with the rapidly growing population. By now, the area had a strong population of immigrants from Eastern Europe. Those faithful to Judaism stayed close together to form a small community, and it was evident in the types of stores opening around the Schultz Brother’s Store: tea houses, tailors, restaurants, shoemakers, small hotels and boarding houses, and a stable. The Schultz Brother’s Store was for general mercantile, like Charlie’s place up in Albuquerque, but Dean and Sam had to wonder if it wasn’t also because of the number of “No Jews” signs they saw in the main center? There were fewer of them than “No Chinese,” “No Negros,” “No Irish,” or “No Indians” signs about the place, but they were there.

They looked over the neighborhood, how the men were all dressed somberly, but neatly as possible, as they hefted and moved things on and off carts and in and out of the building. Women were handing the working men water and cleaning up what they had to behind them: fallen nails, horse shoes, bits of this and that.

On the far end of the “block” was a boarding house (Mrs. Miriam Klein, proprietress), which was also busily spewing out a multitude of people apparently attending to their work.

“Which one is more likely?”

Sam shrugged and sighed. “I guess we’d better split up here. You take the boarding house and I suppose I’ll try the tea house and the general store.”

Neither of them looking forward to it, they split up.

The boarding house was, as seen from outside, very busy. Mostly men seemed to come downstairs to bid the dark-haired woman at the counter a good day and she nodded politely. Or he guessed it was, as they all said something in a foreign language and its intonation sounded like “good day.”

The woman–her black dress neat, fastidious, and free of ornament–paused to stare at Dean, her smile dropping for a moment into a suspicious scowl, before a more cautious smile was put in place. “Welcome, sir, to Klein Boarding House. I’m Mrs. Klein. How can I help you?” Her accent was strong, but not incomprehensible.

Dean removed his hat, tried on his most disarming smile, and bowed slightly in a gap between people flowing out. “Dean Winchester, ma’am. I’m here on business. I am looking for a man, about yay tall? Blue eyes, dark hair. Name’s Castiel Krushnic?”

She was good at hiding her expression, but she couldn’t prevent the slight tension around her eyes at the name. She nodded once and tautly inquired, “We have many men with those features here, but no one of that name. Can you be more specific?”

Dean knew she was lying but kept his expression friendly. “He would have arrived at most a week before today. Come in from Chicago? Or maybe from Albuquerque?”

Tension now bracketed her lips with lines and she gave him a look before she shouted something in a foreign language that brought a lovely young woman from the back. She was as strictly gowned as Mrs. Klein, the biggest difference being the buttons on her sleeves were undone and the fabric pulled back. Curious bright blue eyes narrowed in on him, and they held a brief conversation in that same foreign language before the young woman huffed and nodded.

“My mother has explained you’re looking for someone. I believe we have one occupant who fits your description.” Her accent was not as pronounced, mostly lending her more of a soft purr on her R’s. She had her mother’s dark hair and fair complexion, and, if he had indeed been an Alpha, she would’ve been his type. But she now also giving him a suspicious look, an air of protectiveness covering her.

He nodded. “Please, lead on. I appreciate this,” he said. In fact, he leaned closer to the counter and passed Mrs. Klein a few golden eagles. “For your trouble and in appreciation of your patience.”

The tension lines on her face deepened and she said something short in the other language, now leaning into the counter herself and pointing at him. “Charming young man,” she said, tartly, “But you are now warned that Dražen is not to be taken lightly. Go on with your foolishness.” She straightened and swiped away the coins, nudging him to follow her daughter up with her chin.

Unlike the Pinkerton establishments, the Klein Boarding House had a normal staircase that actually allowed two people to be on it at once. It didn’t end in a hole in the floor, but to a small landing that led into a set of rooms. The stairs continued up, as there seemed to be three stories, but Miss Klein answered his mental question.

“The men like to share larger rooms,” she said as she made her way down the hall, “That way they can share the expenses and send more money home.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

She stopped in front of a smaller room, if the space between doors meant anything, and shook her head. “They assist us in other ways, so it’s not entirely free.” She lightly rapped on the door and said something in her foreign language. He only caught “Dražen” out of it.

A deep, husky voice responded in the language, and there was the sound of things knocking about before the door opened.

Dean felt himself color and his eyes widen.

If this was Castiel Krushnic, he was in trouble.


	7. Son of a Bitch!

“Dražen” was as described: tall (although Dean was a bit taller) and dark haired with stunning blue eyes.

To add to this, he was also thin framed but thickly muscled. His eyes were indeed blue, but they were currently half-lidded and hid his irises. He was also half-dressed, standing in the doorway in his undergarment tucked into his trousers, his suspenders loose and hanging from his waist, his feet bare, and his collar partly open, revealing a strong throat with bits of shaving foam stuck to it. A straight nose and dimpled chin framed a pair of pink sensuous lips that the man licked delicately.

A faint scent of pine and warm grasses swirled out of the room, and Dean suddenly hoped it was the shaving cream, not the man’s scent.

Those blue eyes raked over Dean and he suppressed the shiver that wracked his spine at the intensity. Squinting, the man rattled off something in that same foreign language, which Miss Klein answered in kind. He nodded brusquely and said in heavily-accented English, “Thank you, Hannah. I appreciate your words.”

She blushed prettily (to Dean’s annoyance), bobbed a short curtsy and practically danced away.

There was a low, deep clearing of a throat, and Dean turned back to the man, unaware he had been glaring daggers at Miss Klein’s petite form. Amused, the man (Dražen?) said, “Can I help you?”

Dean felt the blush erupt over his face again and he felt foolish for remotely being jealous. It was ridiculous. He didn’t even know this man. “Ah, yes. My name is Dean Winchester. I’m looking for Castiel Krushnic. Is that you?”

The man peered at him some more, looking as if he were staring into his soul, and then Dražen shrugged. “I am known by that name. I changed it when I came here.” He motioned for Dean to enter. “The Kleins are kind, but they are Slovakian. It was just easier to change my identity, you know?”

Dean entered cautiously. The room was almost exactly like his at the Harvelle Hotel: single bed, a wash basin, a small dresser with a mirror, and a small writing table. The bed was immaculately made, and the wash basin in obvious use. There was a dark-tan duster and a frock coat hanging off the pegs behind the door, a pair of boots sitting next to the bed, and a bowler hat on the desk. A small leather-bound book sat on the bed, looking well thumbed. What the room had that was different than Dean’s room was a personal mirror to shave in, it looked like.

“Just call me Castiel, if you’d like. Or Dražen, if you prefer.” Humor raced over his features as he said, “I might enjoy you calling me Dražen, красивый.”[1]

Dean had no idea what that meant, but he suspected the meaning in the flirtatious way Castiel briefly smiled.

Coughing to give himself time to recuperate, Dean found a seat at the writing desk, turning to watch Castiel finishing up his shave, holding his hat in his lap. “So, you _are_ Castiel Krushnic?”

Blue eyes found him in the mirror. “ _Da_ , why else would I say ‘call me Castiel’?”

Feeling as if his ears were burning now, Dean asked, “In that case, I would like to ask you a few questions.”

The sensuous lips curved minutely before Castiel turned and faced Dean. “You are already asking questions, дорогой. Just ask me quickly. I have a job to attend to.”

Dean decided to go for it. “Did you travel from Chicago with a young woman? Petite? Blonde hair, brown eyes, possibly a foul mouth?”

“Ah, the foul mouth.” Castiel nodded slowly as he faced the mirror again, chuckling softly. “I learned _much_ from her.”

“I bet. Do you recall her name?”

Castiel hummed in thought. “She said ‘Meg’ but I don’t know if that was her real name.”

Dean nodded and tried to ignore the man putting on his shirt in front of him, covering that gorgeous neck. “I am looking for her, so any information you have would be great.”

Castiel turned to look at Dean.

Dean had always been in and out of trouble since he was a lad, and he recognized the quickly fading expression on Castiel’s face: predatory. He suddenly had the thought that this man was _dangerous_ , which was at odds with the now-soft and friendly expression he was wearing.

“Are you?” His deep voice and accent almost made it a purr, and Dean suddenly had to think about horse apples to hide his arousal. He was almost 80% sure this man wasn’t an average Beta, but an Alpha.

The heat in his face burned hotter and, with his fingers tightening around his hat brim, he croaked, “As I said, my name is Dean Winchester. I neglected to add I’m a Pinkerton Detective. Her father, Judge Masters, wants his daughter to come home.”

“Hmmmm.” Noncommittally, Castiel worked on tying his cravat and then putting on his vest.

“Can I look to you for help?”

Castiel turned fully and paused to pull on his dark boots, no socks. He then stepped closer to Dean, his eyes assessing. Dean tried to hold his gaze, but as the man moved in closer, Dean lost his battle and shifted his gaze away. He tried to stutter out a command for Castiel to stop, but then he was directly over him, leaning in, his left hand keeping his balance propped on the desk behind Dean.

Dean was suffused with the scent of pines and warm grasses, with a note of rich earth. He swallowed hard and tried to ignore his desire to _present_. This man knew him as a fellow Alpha, not a weak Omega.

Castiel’s face was even more interesting up close, his lips chapped but full and plush. The scent of sandalwood came from his face, probably from the shaving foam. He brushed by Dean, his face next to his ear as he breathed huskily, “Excuse me, дорогой.”

That was when Dean realized Castiel was reaching behind him, to something on the desk, his sapphire eyes amused even as Dean caught him scenting his neck too intimately for two people who had just met.

Dean knew he should rear up and posture, but he was frozen in place by the sheer power of this Alpha’s pheromones. If he wasn’t careful, his arousal was definitely going to get away from him. He could feel himself trying to get slick for this man.

He had _never_ slicked for anyone.

It was unnerving.

Castiel wore a small, knowing smirk as he put on the bowler hat he had reached behind Dean to grab. Then, in his shirtsleeves, no coat, he opened the door and motioned for Dean to follow. “Please, дорогой, if you do not mind? I have… какое слово я ищу…ah! _Patrol_ now. As a… detective, I think you’ll be acceptable as a…partner.”[2]

 It was becoming unbearable how his face was hot and undoubtedly red. He was supposed to be a fellow Alpha! They didn’t become weak-kneed at a gorgeous scent and a pair of blue eyes. Dean rubbed the back of his neck with embarrassment and eventually stood up as his reply, settling his own hat back on his head. “Fine, I will accompany you for a bit. Perhaps we will run into my brother, Sam.”

The blue eyes gave away nothing as that persistent tiny smirk stayed in the corner of the man’s ~~lush~~ mouth. “Perhaps, yes. We meet your brother. But, again, красивый, I am late.”

Dean walked past him into the hallway, ignoring Castiel’s elaborate bow and then his amused huff as Dean stiffly overlooked him.

They walked in tandem downstairs, where the flow of men had abated to a mere trickle, and both saw Mrs. Klein watching them as they approached the bottom. She was scowling at them and she proceeded to rattle off a long litany of words that Dean suspected was “Are you alright? Who is this guy?” or similar.

Castiel rattled back in the same tongue, his smile kind and fond as he doffed his hat to her, fingers tilting the edge of his bowler in respect.

The ice-blue eyes of the proprietress turned to Dean with disapproval, her accent even thicker with her agitation. “He is a _good_ man. I don’t know what was done, but I doubt it was him!”

Castiel made some pacifying motions.

“I don’t plan on stealing him away,” Dean replied, perplexed.

The woman eyed them both and snorted. “Hannah will be worried about you, Dražen,” she said sharply and insistently, “Be sure to return and ease her worries.”

Castiel replied in whatever language they were speaking, and Mrs. Klein looked slightly mollified. He turned slightly to grin at Dean. “Come!” He grasped Dean’s elbow lightly, “Let us go! We can stop for coffee at the tea shop.”

The street where the boarding house sat was even busier with people bustling back and forth between the stores and restaurants. The tea shop looked sharp and occupied with regular custom, a couple of sets of men sitting under the awning and playing chess. Inside, the tea shop was much hotter than outside, where it was still mild, and people were engaged in all sorts of discussions and in drinking tea from large odd-looking pots.

Dean saw his brother leaning against the counter and seeming to speak to a flirtatious young woman around his age. They were passing paper between them, which seemed odd, until Castiel leaned in and said, “That is Eileen Leahy, the owner’s daughter. She cannot hear.”

Well, that explained the paper.

It didn’t explain the playful look of their encounter.

Castiel moved up and asked an older man for two cups of coffee and if he could bring them back later? The man–Mr. Leahy, Dean supposed–nodded and pointed briefly at the flirting couple. They laughed and Dean rubbed the bridge of his nose in irritation.

He strolled up to Sam. “So, did you get any further than this?”

Sam, as expected, jumped in surprise, his face coloring as he gaped at Dean. “I–uh, _Dean_!”

Dean tipped his hat in respect and said, “Ma’am.”

The woman was short but strong looking. Her brown eyes were mischievous, and she smiled back.

“Uh, Dean, this is Miss Leahy. Her father owns the tea shop so I though–“

“Right.” Dean lightly slapped his blushing brother on the shoulder. “I found Castiel Krushnic and he’s taking me with him on…patrol? I don’t know.”

Scowling, Sam asked, “You need me to go with you?”

Now, it was Dean’s turn to flush bright red (to Sam’s surprise) as the man himself sidled up to them. “Hello. I heard my name.”

Castiel handed Dean a cup and squinted suspiciously at Sam. “Who are you?” He looked to Dean. “Is he bothering you, дорогой?”

Undoubtedly beet red, Dean sputtered, “This is my brother, Sam Winchester, also a Pinkerton.”

Eyes on ~~an undoubtedly fidgeting~~ Dean, Sam flashed his badge from the inside of his town coat. “At your service, sir.”

Castiel regarded him sharply, as if flaying off his flesh and looking into his soul, and asked tartly, “This… шкаф is your brother, дорогой?”[3]

“Well, I don’t know what that means, but, yes, this is my brother.”

“Very good. I am Castiel Krushnic. I will return with дорогой… I mean, _Dean_ …in a while. I need to patrol.” Castiel tilted his hat towards Miss Leahy and Sam in goodbye and made his way out of the tea shop, sipping his coffee.

Sam shot Dean a look, as if asking if he were alright, and Dean glared back. _I don’t need a babysitter!_

Dean noted, as they parted, that most of the patrons avoided Castiel and tried to be inconspicuous. It was odd but verified that the man was, somehow, dangerous. He didn’t seem to be carrying a weapon, so why were people scared?

* * *

 

[1] Красивый: handsome, lovely, beautiful

[2] какое слово я ищу: what word am I looking for

[3] шкаф: cupboard


	8. Troubled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know Russian, so the use of "красивый" was my choice against my Russian-speaking friend's advice.
> 
>  **EDIT:** received some Russian assistance! Thanks, Jesus_Of_Suburbia for helping me out!! I'll be using дорогой ("dear" although I prefer "beloved.")

The “patrol,” as Castiel called it, did not take very long.

It was basically a stroll through the neighborhood, speaking to people (in different languages, it sounded like), and making sure nothing was stolen, broken, and that no one was beaten or dead.

Castiel spoke softly and kindly to people, with old men and women greeting him fondly. They often handed him food, some of which he handed to Dean to hold (or eat) while they walked.

“They were scared,” Castiel murmured as they munched on a pastry, “There are those who resent not only foreigners but especially Jews. Before I arrived, they took much damage to their shops, just men looking for trouble.” He pointed off to the west. “The Chinese have the same problems, but they made themselves… какое слово я ищу…ah yes! _Necessary_. They are strong workers and they care for people’s clothing who don’t have help.”

Dean nodded, enjoying his current particular pastry that was ridiculously close to a hand-sized _pie_. A doughy outside, warm inside, single-serving _pie_. The inside was filled with warm ground beef, onions, potatoes, and carrots, and Dean wondered if he could do the same at home?

They continued to stroll along, Castiel obviously popular, and, although his demeanor was approachable and almost soft, there was an iron core to the man. Still, watching him here, one could imagine he was a Beta as he shook hands and exchanged manly hugs.

As they approached the Klein Boarding House again, Dean was startled that he had easily passed at least two hours with this man, walking around, making mild conversation, and eating gifts.  He wondered, again, how Castiel was going to protect everyone if he didn’t carry a gun or, really, any weapons.

He got the opportunity to see it when he had taken his eyes off Castiel for a moment and wandered away from the area Castiel had been talking to what Dean thought was a rabbi. Now, he wasn’t lost, but he had lost sight of the blue-eyed man and swiveled around looking for him. Dean crossed the street, moving in the direction of their own lodgings, when hands grabbed him from behind and dragged him into an alleyway.

An alleyway that stank of shit, rotten food, and dead animals, he groaned through the nasty smelling palm over his mouth and nose. That’s how they snuck up on him: the stench covered their approach.

He bit into the hand over his mouth, grinning maniacally when he heard them curse and relishing the blood he tasted on his tongue. He then pistoned back an elbow that hit solidly (if the grunt of pain was any indication) before a familiar voice said, “Enough of that there.”

Dean hadn’t been pistol-whipped in a long time, not since he had gotten caught by some criminals at the docks who were importing opium. It hadn’t been fun then and it certainly wasn’t fun now.

He grunted in pain, the back of his head taking the brunt of the blow, and, before he could recover, another one struck him plain on the brow, causing tears to burst out.

On his knees now, he groaned with pain as blistering stars of red light blossomed in his eyes. Dean tried to keep himself under control, and his training caused him to reach for his knife, when he dimly believed that he saw a rock whistle past and strike Assaulter One in the head.

Obviously, the man had a soft head as Dean heard him collapse with a pained yelp. He heard cussing and guns being pulled, but then–as Dean sank back onto his ass and palms of his hands–he saw a black blur press in and the sound of someone getting their ass whooped.

He hoped it was his assailant. He hoped the bastard got a boot in the ass.

Blinking absently, Dean tried to stare at his rescuer, thankful for some odd reason that it was Castiel.

Castiel who looked absolutely furious and was holding someone by the throat against the wall, his teeth bared at the dark-skinned cowboy who was growling back and trying to free himself.

Dean blinked and realized that Castiel was assaulting a US Marshal, one Gordon Walker, and croaked, “Cas… don’t kill him…”

There was a long stream of a foreign language as the Alpha shook the Marshal, who was not holding back his own growling and spluttering out curses and globs of blood.

“This… Хуй с горы attacked you! Why not kill him?”[1]

Coughing, Dean tried to stand up. “He’s… a US… Marshal.”

“This… подонок is law?”[2] Castiel spat to the side. “He’s a… rabid dog!”

“Please, Cas?”

Dean felt the darkness caving in on him, and, as it swallowed him whole, he heard a shocked, “Dean!”

Dean Winchester awoke with severe pain in his head and the warm scent of _Alpha_ around him. He groaned and gingerly touched the back of his head to find a good-sized lump. That’s right, fucking Gordon Walker and his pal had ambushed him, but Cas…tiel had saved him.

Blearily, Dean looked around and realized the reason why Cas’s scent was so heavy here: he was in Cas’s room. In fact, he was in his bed. He felt himself blush at the impropriety.

Next to him, Sam was passed out at the writing desk, his feet propped up on its edge, and his mouth open as he snored lightly.

It hurt just to blink, but he tried to sit up and nearly vomited for the effort.

The door creaked open just then, the dark-haired foreigner walking in with a tray and looking rather haggard around the edges himself, if the removed cravat and wildly sticking up hair was any indication. Blue eyes, dark smudges beneath them, locked onto his and he gasped, “Dean!”

He put the tray down at the foot of the bed and grasped Dean’s face with his large hands. “дорогой!”

Although he was mostly out of it, Dean managed to grunt out a response. Storm-blue eyes looked over him, while callused hands gently touched his face. “дорогой! They hurt you! I should kill them!”

Blinking upwards and squinting, Dean muttered, “What the hell happened?”

Castiel spat to the side, and then hissed, “Those _fuckers_ attacked you outside my lodging! Smelly Marshal _dog shit!_ ”

Dean groaned faintly, the stench of burned earth coming off Castiel in waves of anger. “Ugh…Cas… _smell…_ ”

Castiel immediately looked contrite and tried to control his anger. “Извини, дорогой…they hurt you.”

He touched a spot on Dean’s forehead that throbbed angrily at the contact and Dean hissed. “I should have been there,” Castiel mourned, tracing a thumb down Dean’s jaw.

Dean was about to say it wasn’t necessary when he heard Sam noisily and purposely clear his throat.

They both turn to eye Sam who was watching them with a narrow stare. “Dean, are you okay? You have a bump the size of a goose egg on your head.”

Dean snorted. “That would explain the throbbing headache.”

“Nyet, дорогой. Those _fuckers_ hit you more than one time with a gun.” Cas bared his teeth. “I should have pushed it up their жопа like this!”

 _It was a little amusing_ , Dean thought, as Cas showed Sam how he would’ve shoved a Colt .45 up a man’s ass, how he said ‘fuckers.’ More like ‘faak-kerz’ with his accent, but undoubtedly still adorable.

His head then violently throbbed and he winced, a whine escaping him. Both Sam and Cas stopped talking and hovered over him. “It’s just my head,” he responded dully.

“I bet.” Sam leaned back over the desk to get the bathing basin and he huffed with irritation. “I’m going to go get some ice. Will you two be okay in here?”

Dean glared at him and Sam raised his hands in surrender as he stepped out. “I’ll be about five minutes. I’ll see if Mrs. Klein has any more ice in her storage she can give us.”

And he stepped out, leaving Dean and Cas alone.

Cas fidgeted on his chair, his hands twitching as if he wanted to touch something, and then he opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself. He swallowed hard and looked away from Dean as he said, “дорогой, we removed your garments to check you over…”

Clothes...? Dean (softly, because it hurt) frowned. Why would that matt– “Holy shit!” He hollered, trying to sit up, realizing his scent sachets had been removed.

Cas tried to hold him down and made placating sounds. “It’s alright, дорогой! I only meant… I mean… you smell so…”

Sam, with his perpetual bad timing, flung open the door, hair wild as he stared at Cas standing over Dean and holding his shoulders down.

As Dean was about to ask where the ice was, Sam snarled and threw himself at Cas. Startled, Cas avoided the charge and managed to get to the middle of the room where there was a bit more space.

“ _What did you do to my brother?_ ” Sam snapped, face red and veins popping in his forehead and neck in his rage.

Cas shook his head and Dean growled, “Sam! Cut it out!”

Not listening (as always), Sam came at Cas with a series of long-armed punches. Cas easily evaded them, looking concerned, and, finally, he used Sam’s momentum to pull him forward and knock him on the floor.

As Sam laid there, panting and snarling, Cas crouched just out of arm’s length and said, “Is this who protects мой дорогой? This…” he waved at the entire length of Sam as he levered himself up, “This is unacceptable.” He shook his head in disbelief, squinting. “I will accompany you to find Meg.”

Dean felt himself blush hotly as those blue eyes met his, just as Sam was finally on his feet and ready to swing again. “Sam, enough! Nothing happened! God’s truth!”

“It’s doubtful you will find Meg without me, anyway.” Cas grinned a big gummy smile at Sam, who glared at him. “She wanted to disappear. I _might_ know where.” He winked at Dean. “Maybe.”

They ended up staying in Cas’s room for a few days while Dean ~~reluctantly~~ recovered. It was humiliating for several reasons, one of them being…well, his scent sachets had been removed while he was unconscious, and he knew he smelled all sweet and alluring. Especially since he would catch Cas staring at him. Not in any weird way–although just staring _at_ people was pretty damn weird–but with an intensity that made him uneasy.

And that was the beginning of his issues with his incarceration: he didn’t _want_ to leave. He liked being surrounded with Cas’s scent, even with the fluctuations in his mood. Cas still left in the morning to do his ‘patrol,’ but he stayed with Sam and Dean the rest of the time.

“The Dog Fucker who hit you has left,” Cas had informed him soon after waking up. His expression was cold and grim as he added, “Maybe I helped him along.”

Sighing, Dean asked, “Did you hurt him?”

Blue eyes narrowed. “I helped him decide it is better to be gone.”

Dean carefully swiped hands down his face in frustration, breathing heavily through his nose. “Alright. I suppose we just better make sure we don’t run into any marshals.”

The wolfish grin Cas gave him was nearly worth the thought.

Dean was on that precipice of awakening. His eyes still felt heavy, but the scents in the air were of _safety_ , of Sam and of the wild areas of the Campbell ranch, all pines, grasses, and warm earth. He could hear two voices, one a rumbling accented, the other just Sam. They sounded deeply invested for all they woke Dean up with their conversation.

“Really? You were a guard for the Russian Imperial family?”

“ _Da._ My whole family was trained to the bodyguard. We are sent training early with many others to learn, eh…protection skills.”

“So you came here because?”

There was a heavy sigh. “Russia is not the same, шкаф… I mean, _Sam_. My oldest brothers died with Alexander II, when the carriage went BOOM. My brother Gabriel disappeared after we infiltrated and caught most of the newer Наро́дная во́ля.[3] They are scheduled to hang soon, and I…I cannot watch. So now only Anna stays with the Tsarina.”

“You couldn’t watch.”

“ _Da_.” Cas slowly intoned it, the weight of the word heavy with regret. “Those men, _boys_ really…they sought a better Russia. I heard their words and they were not wholly wrong. Their _ways_ …now that was mistaken.”

“You ran away.” There was no judgment in Sam’s statement. Dean shifted minutely, and conversation ceased until he was pretending to breathe deeply and slowly.

“No, I seek a better tomorrow.” Cas’s voice was pitched lower, almost a growl. “The Tsar has made things hard for the people, especially the Jews again. Many people have suffered. I cannot stay there.”

There was a heavy silence, and Cas whispered harshly, “There is right and there is wrong, and I do not know which one is anymore.”

Dean fell back into an exhausted sleep.

The next time he woke up, it was to Sam’s excited jiggling of the bed.

“SAVATE?!”[4]

Cas shushed him. “We were sent to Paris to learn from _Le Pisseur_ himself. My father thought it was… how to say…enrichening? _Nyet_ , _useful_. My oldest brothers, Michael and Lukas both went yearly to see Monsieur Casseux, and by the time I was seven, I was proficient in French and Savate.”

“What the hell are you two going on about,” Dean groaned, wiping a hand over his face and gingerly touching the quail’s egg bump on his forehead.

“Oh, Dean!”

He heard Sam leap up and apparently get him water, as a glass was put under his nose. Hazel eyes glowed at him. “Castiel has been all over Europe! Even into China! He used to be a…O…Okah…”

Behind him, Cas said, “Отделение по Охранению Общественной Безопасности и Порядка, but now is more called _Okhrana_ , or just police.”[5]

All Dean could see was Sam’s huge beaming grin and he scowled at him, pushing away his face. “Cas…you were part of the police? In Russia?”

The dark-headed man, who was sitting at Dean’s feet, came into view with Sam’s absence. “ _Da_. For years. It is ugly work.”

“I was telling him we were Pinkertons from Chicago and how that worked,” Sam enthused, his inner puppy out and wagging wildly, “And he told me about working for Royals.”

“Don’t happy pee yourself, Sammy,” Dean said between sips of water.

Sam gave him a bitchy look. Dean smiled into his glass.

“I worked for them many years,” Cas added in his gruff voice, his accent bold and warm. “They were good people face-to-face but not so good at ruling.”

“I’ve heard about that,” Sam said, nodding seriously, “And you said they made you travel?”

After handing Sam back the glass, Dean tried to force himself to sit up, but Cas was on him in a second, helping him with pillows and getting him situated.

“I was… how you say…made to talk languages? For people who do not know Russian.”

“Sounds exciting.”

Cas sat back on his chair and shook his finger at Dean. “Russia is a giant country, filled with immigrants and peasants. Not all can speak Russian or even French, so there is some need for German and other tongues. Same with visitors to court.”

“He speaks like eight languages!” Sam was suitably impressed, Dean could tell. “His Spanish is better than mine, so he’ll be a tremendous help!”

Blearily, Dean scowled and muttered, “What?”

Sam pointed at the Alpha. “He said he’s coming with us.”

“Like hell!” Dean rubbed his aching head.

“I could be your third wheel.”

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know that’s not a good thing, right?”

“Why not? The third wheel adds extra grip, greater stability. I even found a clue!”

“Yeah, Dean, more stability!” Sam smirked; Dean could hear it in his voice.

Without looking up, Dean flashed him his middle finger, to which Sam shouted, “Hey! Impolite!”

“You’re impolite,” Dean muttered under his breath as he tried to push himself further up on the bed, ignoring the two hovering men who had leaped up to help him. “What’s this about a clue, Cas?”

Cas frowned. “Why call me ‘Cas’?”

“It’s a nickname,” Sam inserted, rolling his eyes, “Dean decided early on that ‘Castiel’ was a mouthful.”

“A mouthful?” Cas slanted Dean a wicked look under his lashes and Dean felt himself heat with embarrassment at the innuendo in those eyes.

“Clue, Cas! What was your clue!”

Cas harrumphed and resettled himself comfortably. “We will discuss this… mouthful thing…later, yes?” At Dean’s reluctant (and undoubted red-faced) nod, he smirked and said, “Very well. I remembered she was heading more west. She wanted to open her own business.”

“Did she say what kind?”

Cas hummed and rolled his lips in, tilting his head in thought. It was ridiculously cute.

“I do not know. She said was no longer going to be…bossed?”

“Ah.” Sam said, “Her father is very controlling, of what we know of him.”

“Hmmm, we can speak to someone who knows her, too. She bought horse and supplies from her. Her name is Ruby, but she is no nice woman.”

“Dean, you think you’ll be up to leaving soon? You still don’t look very well. Maybe you should stay in bed for another day?”

Dean stared into Sam’s worried puppy eyes and internally cringed. The sad, wet-looking hazel eyes were his weak spot and they both knew it. Sam threw in a touch of trembling lip and Dean scowled. “That’s not fair, Sam!”

The puppy-eyes got a bit waterier and there was a definite chin wobble. “Damn it,” Dean huffed, lifting his hands in surrender. “Fine, I’ll stay in bed one more day!”

“Promise?”

Despite the hammering in his skull, Dean sulked as he slid back down into the covers. “I promise. Now go get that information, you manipulative cur!”

Sam grinned. “Do you need to translate for me, Cas?”

Cas squinted again at the name and shook his head. “I can come with, make things easier?”

“Nah, Sam’s a lady-killer,” Dean snorted, pulling up his covers. “He’ll be okay.”

“Damn right!”

* * *

 

[1] Хуй с горы: Penis from the mountain–Some guy who just appears from nowhere

[2] Подонок: jerk

[3] Наро́дная во́ля ([Narodnaya Volya](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Narodnaya_Volya)): People’s Will–19th C revolutionary group

[4] Savate: (Sa-vat) is a martial art that originated in the slums and docks of France. It is mostly kicking with the foot and later incorporated boxing.

[5] Отделение по Охранению Общественной Безопасности и Порядка is literally “Department for Protecting the Public Security and Order.” _Okhrana_ is technically the secret police.


	9. Rosa's Cantina

 

 

For the first time this trip, Sam was free to go out on his own, without Dean’s big-brother complex getting in his way. As it was, living with his brother for 24-hours-a-day was wearing him down. Now, there were the weird looks passing between Castiel and his brother that he really wanted no part of and reinforced why he was happy to be a Beta. Disgusting pheromone fogs so thick _he_ could smell them and wearing their hearts on their sleeves... he was never going to let Dean live this down.

And, although he hadn’t spoken to Dean about it yet, Sam _did_ have another clue.

Before Dean's attack, he _had_  indeed met up with Sheriff Jody Mills for lunch, mostly because she was a gorgeous woman and he liked strong women, and, two, because they couldn’t afford to give up any leads. Of course, the fact that he hadn’t known Dean had been attacked at the time had made going to lunch with her even easier.

Rosa’s Cantina was a small restaurant at the edge of town, as she had said. They met inside and ordered lunch, and Sam told her about being a Pinkerton in the big city. She returned the favor by describing life in a prospering boom town.

“It’s constantly boiling over with trouble,” she griped over her enchiladas and beer. “The miners come into town after their payday and wreak havoc, same with the cowboys and _vaqueros_ coming in from the cattle drives. More and more gamblers come rolling in and, as you can see, prostitution has blossomed right up there with the traffic.”

Jody shook her head. “I came here to find a new life, one away from the Dakota territory, y’know? Lost my family to the pox when it ravaged through there. Sold our ranch and came south, straight into more trouble than I can think about.”

“Keeping yourself busy, then?” Sam chewed on his own enchiladas, their having been highly recommended by Jody. They were good, almost _too_ spicy for his tongue, and they were making his eyes water.

Snorting, she forced herself to finish swallowing before replying. “It’s a never-ending stream of dead gamblers, cowboys, miners, and harlots. They keep killing each other so fast that Concordia Cemetery is just filling up with miscreants and criminals. That’s how it is in the Six-Shooter Capital.”

Sam chuckled, unable to help himself at her wry delivery, and she smiled at him, her brown eyes bright and lovely. “So, tell me, Mr. Pinkerton Detective, what brought you to our own private corner of hell?”

Taking that as his cue, he slipped a hand into his coat pocket and pulled out the photo, handing it over carefully. “Been looking for this woman. Name’s Meg, Meg Masters. Her father is a judge in Chicago and wants her returned home.”

Jody stared at the photo. “This snip, I remember her. She had more attitude than wit, it looked like.” She slipped the photo back. “I didn’t know her name, but I know she bought a horse and some supplies from one of the merchants here. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you which one and we have almost ten different merchants of horse flesh and goods.”

Sam puckered his lips in thought, his brow furrowing. “Do you happen to know in which direction she left?”

“I’d say west, young man,” she said with another swig of her beer, “Word is from some of the Madams that she was talking to them about getting girls to work. Made them uneasy so they contacted me in case she was planning on killing any of them and take their stock. Seems she quite violently turned down any invitations to be a working girl herself, and that made the madams nervous.”

“Huh.”

Jody smirked. “She was quite a firecracker, that one. Shot a guy in the leg for groping her and they had to talk her down from shooting him in the head.” She shook her head in disbelief. “She shot off one of his ears and told him to think about that next time he just grabbed a woman.”

“You sound like you admire her?”

Shrugging, she picked at the remnants of her food. “A woman able to care for herself is considered an anomaly. The only reason I’m currently the sheriff is that no one wanted the job. Too many dead sheriffs or dirty ones.”

“Like that US Marshal, Walker?”

Jody chuckled darkly. “Ah, Walker. He outranks me, so I can't do much, y’know? But he has a habit of targeting Omegas.” She snorted. “A real bastard, that one. At least Kubrick was clean, even if he was one preachy sonuvabitch.”

She dropped her fork on her plate and pushed it away. “I guess it’s back to being all on me again. I don’t relish the extra work that would come from his leaving, but I’d rather have no one than someone I constantly have to watch my back for.”

Sam pushed around what was left of his food around with his fork and hummed noncommittedly.

“But you have no idea to whom she spoke?”

She lifted a brow at him, questioning.

“I mean, which merchant she frequented?”

She gulped down the last of her beer and put the glass down on the table with a hefty thud. “Nope!” She gasped out, shaking her head minutely and smirking. “But I suspect that she would avoid the men.” She chuckled darkly again. “That one has no patience for them.”

Jody shifted forward to lean on her elbows and looked at Sam under her lashes. “I have plenty of use for them, myself.” Sam felt his face heat and the lovely sheriff leaned back with a knowing chuckle. “Got a patch of land near here that I could use some help with.”

She winked at him and Sam wanted to hide under the table.

_What a woman!_

But in the _here and now_ , with a _name_ to go with the hint that ~~Jody~~ , _Sherriff Mills_ had dropped, Sam felt more enthused about their trail than he had a week ago, when they were still trying to locate Castiel. He was still rather bemused by how quickly they had found him, but immigrants of similar backgrounds tended to congregate together, and Castiel had not shown himself to be hiding from anyone.

In fact, Sam was rather suspicious of how easily he gave his personal information to both he and Dean…but perhaps it had more to do with the dark and hungry looks Castiel and Dean had been trying to hide from each other?

Sam gagged.

Nope! He did _not_ want to think about that.

Instead, he focused on his target by asking around the nearest shops.

“Looking for a store that sells supplies and even horses? Run by a woman?” The grizzled old guy manning the nearest tack shop spat out a glob of tobacco and stared at Sam blankly. “Might know.”

Sam sighed and dug into his pocket, placing a small pile of bits on the counter.

The old man’s graying brown eyes gleamed with greed, his thickly-veined hands trembling a tad with anticipation. The nails were curved and there were obvious calluses on his gnarled-jointed fingers. “Woman, huh? Must be talking about Ruby and hers. They got a shop down the Southern Pacific Depot’s way. Corner of Utah and Main, or thereabouts.”

Sam slid the bits closer to the man’s weathered paw and dipped his hat politely. “Thank you, sir.”

The coins disappeared quickly under the counter as Sam turned to walk back out the door.

_He had the lead._

 

Dean was feeling extremely resentful and had spent the day sulking while Cas fussed over him. He felt well enough to get up and do his business and was annoyed that Cas had pulled out the thunder mug for him to piss into.

He wasn’t an invalid. He could pee on his own, dammit!

It was compounded by the Alpha having asked Hannah to bring up food and water every hour–broths, soups, soft breads–and basically force-feeding him if he refused. He was _twenty-seven years old_ and did **_not_** need a caretaker!

But despite his annoyance, some part of him _liked_ being pampered, which was why he was sulking quite so hard: his inner Omega was happy as a pig in shit. Mentally, Dean hated being an average Omega bitch.

Inwardly, his Omega was doing happy-yappy somersaults at the attention Cas gave him. The warm scent of _home_ radiated off the handsome Russian, and it unnerved Dean how quickly he allowed the Alpha to come near him, much less see to his needs.

It probably did not help that Dean’s sachets had all been removed and his own scent was mixing into a wondrous bouquet with Cas’s. The scent of rich pine forests grown near meadows of fresh grasses mixed well with his own scent of cinnamon and new oranges, lavender in the sun, with touches of coriander and red cedar. Mixed, they smelled like a warm cabin in the woods, fragrant meadows of fresh flowers and grasses that eased the heart and felt…well, felt like _home_.

But that’s fucking ridiculous.

Absolutely fucking _ridiculous_.

Dean didn’t believe in mating fairy tales and how the _fuck_ was he supposed to take that his hypothetical True Mate was from Russia and _somehow_ , _someway_ , they had crossed paths on a _case_? _In Texas??_

He nervously kneaded his bedding as Cas reentered with what smelled like coffee.

“Here, sugar and milk, right?” Cas handed him the cup with an encouraging smile and it made Dean’s usually quiet Omega sit up and take notice.

Dean inwardly slapped his Omega while outwardly taking the coffee. “Thank you, Cas.”

The Alpha (because, although he was quiet and generally soft-spoken, he was definitely an Alpha) beamed happiness at him, and Dean felt his face get hot. He covered his blush by sipping on the beverage, relieved at the milky, sweet flavor that eased the bitterness.

“Dean…” (With his accent, it sounded like “Dee-n” and it shouldn’t have been, well, _arousing_!) “We should talk about this…”

Flicking his gaze up to the Alpha, Dean tried to decipher which “this” he was talking about. What he did get was a good look at the man’s handsome profile, his scruff already edging towards a beard, his blue eyes narrowed with thought, although his lips were a bit downturned at the corners. He smelled more like smoky pine cinders and–carefully sniffing–Dean didn’t like the slight bitterness of it.

Cas was sitting by the bed again, his coffee cup sat on the small table he had commandeered while Dean was sick, and he was lightly wringing his hands.

“What do you mean, Cas?” Dean watched him through his lashes as he sipped, watching the man’s expression roil through several emotions.

“This!” Cas’s head snapped up to catch Dean’s gaze, the blue eyes dark and filled with nervousness. “You are… ugh… _words_ …” He rubbed a hand against his face and held it over his mouth and jaw for a moment before sighing through his nose. “My супруг…is…”

There was a firm knock on the door before Sam walked, all smiles and unaware he had walked in on anything. He did stop a moment when confronted with Cas’s annoyed glare but shook himself and carried on. “So, get this! Remember I had lunch with the Sheriff?”

Dean smirked. “The hot, older Beta? Yeah.”

Sam threw an annoyed look at him and muttered, “Yeah, her.” He coughed and continued, “She had mentioned a female merchant that had sold Meg supplies because Meg hates men.”

Cas snorted. “She doesn’t hate men! She hates _stupid_ people! That one has a bad temper.”

Sam shrugged. “Whatever it is, she did business with a female merchant and then, Cas, you gave us a name: Ruby. So, I managed to track down her location and…”

He paused, suddenly looking unwilling to share his interaction with Dean and Cas. He fidgeted a bit, and Dean laughed. “You got another crush there, Sammy?”

His face turned red. “She’s just…very lovely Dean, intelligent dark eyes, dark chocolate hair. In fact, Ruby was a _very_ attractive young Alpha, even if she were only half my height.” His massive shoulders slumped. “But–yeah, she’s an Alpha. She’s not likely looking for a male Beta anyway.”

Cas hummed. “Miss Leahy is also an Alpha. Perhaps you have…ah! Type?”

Dean snorted. “He just likes them overpowering and bossy. You should’ve met his first crush. Miss Moore was a powerful Beta with serious Alpha tendencies. She had him wrapped around her finger like a grass snake.”

Sam grit his teeth so hard his jaw muscles jumped, even as he fiercely threw a “Shut up, Dean!” expression at Dean.

Cas hummed and asked, “So what did you find?”

Looking grateful for the segue, Sam continued. “She was very flirtatious, I admit, and I may dine with her for supper. Is that alright?”

Dean waved away the question and Sam huffed. “Well, she admitted that she had been longtime acquaintances with Miss Masters, and that she had been awfully surprised that Meg had just shown up, out of the blue, a six-shooter strapped to her waist and wearing trousers just bold as can be.”

“Meg likes trousers,” Cas interrupted, confused, “Why is this a problem?”

“She’s a Beta,” Dean answered shortly. “She’s not supposed to wear them.”

Cas squinted at him. “There are many Beta and Alpha women here who wear trousers. I do not understand. I thought this was custom?”

“Not custom so much as convenience,” Sam replied. “Regardless, she said Meg was headed west, but probably staying out of the US. Appears Miss Masters was complaining quite…virulently about her father’s plans for her.”

Cas guffawed. “Is true! I learned many curse words from Meg!”

“What a woman,” Dean sneered under his breath, trying not to roll his eyes.

“So, whenever Dean is able to leave, I say we get some horses and try and ride out as soon as possible. She’s got a good week, week and a half on us.”

“She also has money to spend,” Cas added thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair. “She had gold coins, a large bag of them. Meg said she traded her paper money for them.”

“Well, that just dandy. She somewhere west, but south of the border, with a barrel of cash and more temper than a wounded cougar.”

Sam eyed his brother. “Dean, with that much money, she will have to keep a low profile, if she knows what’s good for her.”

“I bet. That’s just great.”


	10. Perla Negra

Perla Negra was a tiny village on the northwestern edge of the Gadsden Purchase between New Mexico and Mexico proper. It existed on the distant western end, nearly disappearing into the wilds of the Chihuahuan Desert, but near enough a small railroad that passed through Deming to Boca Grande that there was a decent population and enough traffic.

It was in no way a boomtown; it was more of a stop to buy supplies and horses before continuing a journey without the railroads.

They came into town on tired horses, the journey from El Paso to the border rather exhausting as the river did not follow the border to the west. It flowed on southernly, the Rio Grande cutting its way through the land. The land itself was unforgiving brush and dirt, with occasional sandstorms and punctuated by horrifically loud and violent thunderstorms that snapped open the sky with a sound like cannonball fire.

Perla Negra was the fiftieth village they had tried along the border over the past week, and they were getting irritated with each other. Sam was irritated by Cas’s overprotective pong and Dean’s ‘fuck off’ stench (both strong enough for a _Beta_ to scent it), Dean was irritated by Cas’s presumptions despite proving he was quite capable of taking care of himself, and Cas was irritated that _his_ Omega wouldn’t allow him to protect him.

Tempers came to a head as they approached the village as Dean–looking forward to a proper bath and clean clothes–kicked his tired horse into a trot. Cas dashed out in front of him, his tired horse complaining at the kick and push in speed, and said, “We don’t know if it’s safe.”

Dean whipped out his gun in a heartbeat, glaring at Cas down the barrel. “I. Am. Going. Into. Town. You can’t stop me and if you try…” he pulled back the hammer on the gun, “…I am going to shoot you, so help me, Castiel!”

Sam slapped a hand to his face in disbelief while Cas glared back at Dean, his eyes bright as the frontier sky but his face otherwise a mask of impassivity.

“Very well, красивый. But I will go in first.”

Dean bared his teeth at him, but Cas just gave him a narrowed gaze and took the lead.

“He’s so _frustrating_!” He spat, putting his gun away.

“Sure he is,” Sam muttered, looking off to the side, looking a bit too knowing for Dean’s liking.

He felt his face flame and shoved his hat down harder on his head. Stupid perceptive little brothers!

They clopped into town, eyes open and taking in everything around them, but there wasn’t much to it. Perla Negra was really just a hotel, a small brothel, a good-sized general store, and three saloons. Dean made a beeline towards the hotel, the thought of a bath invigorating him. He didn’t like being dirty and the days of being on the road without water to waste on his toilet aggravated his inner Omega.

The railway stop was not very busy, as it was technically a large wooden shed that looked like doubled as a reloading spot for goods, if the large warning sign about trespassers and thieves being shot was any indication. The village was so small that most of the buildings in the town were made of adobe bricks, the mud squares whitewashed to keep the heat of the day off it. But for its size, it was still loud and lively. The sound of pianos and singing women roared out of at least one saloon, women in nearly no clothing coming and going from the “Margarita’s House of Rapture” and walking up and down the single street to the hotel and saloons.

“Is this it?” Sam asked, pushing up his hat with the back of his hand. He had a sunburn on the tip of his nose and dirt crinkled at the edges of his eyes.

“Looks like the rest of those podunk towns,” Dean muttered, glaring at the near-naked women who giggled and blew kisses at them as the trio clopped to the hotel, their garters showing, their skirts hitched up to their groin. It was a good thing he wasn’t prissy about seeing women’s flesh. Some northern Omegas he knew would’ve fainted at the sight of a garter.

The Encanto hotel–made of wood and adobe–was busy for an afternoon. The trio got off their horses and tied them to the posts, pulling off their saddlebags and wandering into the cool darkness of the entrance. The inside was designed for people waiting for the train, it seemed, with couches and chairs set up. There were thick colorful rugs of obviously Indian make on the floor, and the counter was staffed by a woman with a tight bun of black and a short man with shaggy Beta hair, while people mingled in the foyer.

The woman looked up, her eyes a dark brown and asked with a Mexican accent, “Can I help you?”

Dean smelled Alpha off her, and her eyes were particularly sharp as she looked at him, only to have Cas push in front of him and speak in Spanish. Those dark eyes glittered for a moment before she nodded and handed over the log in book. Sam wrote in their names while she got the keys and handed them over, reaching for Dean, but getting Cas’s hand instead. Cas grinned, showing his teeth, and said something in Spanish that made the woman flick her eyes over to Dean and then narrow at Cas, shoving the keys into _his_ palm. She rattled off some more information that sounded like times and meals and such.

Dean thanked her with a cheeky smile and a wink, causing her to blush, and completely ignored Cas as he walked up the stairway, his saddlebags over his shoulder.

It wasn’t Dean’s fault that his God damned sachets didn’t work after days in the blistering afternoon heat. Or that he had lost most of them somehow. His natural Omega scent was oozing off him, he knew, and that attracted all sorts of Alphas. Cas included, he thought with a sigh.

Not that he didn’t want to attract Cas, but that he wanted Cas to recognize he could stand on his own two feet without him hovering!

Of course, the fact Cas used to be a personal guard for Russian royalty explained some of his… wariness.

But Dean wasn’t some kid tsarette who didn’t know a gun from a fork. He had trained his whole life to take care of himself. This… _scent bond_ bullshit was not helping him at all. When he realized that staying in Cas’s room that long _with Cas nearby_ had scent bonded them, Dean had huffed up as angry as a stepped-on badger.

He didn’t _want_ to be bonded! He still had so much ahead of him and being tied down and forced to push out brats was not high on his list of priorities.

So, being Dean, he acted out harshly whenever Cas tried to get close to him…or tried to help him…or tried to treat him even the littlest bit delicately.

It was also pissing him off that he never got a good hit on Cas. It was like the man had eyes in the back of his head and hearing like giant bat. It was _frustrating_.

Cas handed a key to Sam and then opened a door for Dean, gesturing politely for him to enter. Dean scowled. “Are you staying with Sam?”

“I’m staying with you, to make sure no one bothers you, красивый.”

Dean smiled grimly, took the key from the door lock as he passed, and said, “You’re bothering me. Go stay with Sam.”

He slammed the door shut (and, okay, Cas’s foot was in the doorway and perhaps Dean had to slam it _twice_ to get it closed) and locked it, ignoring the pained cursing on the other side.

“Alphas,” he grumbled, tossing his saddlebags onto the bed. He hoped Sam would go with him to the baths because he was certain he wouldn’t survive seeing Cas in the all and all. Dean swiped his chin when he realized he had drooled a bit at the thought, and then grit his teeth in frustration and annoyance. He was not _just_ an Alpha’s mate!

Sighing, he got out his only clean clothing and waited for Sam to check on him. No way he was venturing near Cas right now.

After a bath, a meal downstairs, and a moderate night’s sleep (there were more beds banging and sexual moans than any of the men were comfortable with), the trio decided to go ahead and search for Meg.

“Are you sure she’s here?” Dean asked for the hundredth time, ignoring the narrow-eyed look Cas gave him.

“No, but I remember she said she was going in this direction.”

Before Dean could retort about how many thousands of miles were involved in ‘this direction,’ Sam interrupted. “This looks as good as anywhere else, Dean. It’s not Cas’s fault she took a horse from El Paso and fled alone.”

“There is a lot of room to cover, is all I’m saying,” Dean snapped. He was getting tired of dirt, dust, and horses, and his baths being few and far in-between. They never talked about all the dirt and grit in his dime novels!

“You would not even know the direction without me,” Cas retorted with a snort.

“Please… stop. You’re giving me a headache,” Sam groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Dean glared at them, but Cas said, “ _Da_ , let me ask the Alpha up front if she’s seen her.”

Sam handed over the now-creased photo and Cas strode over to the desk where the woman was writing something. They watched her look up with annoyance, scowl at Cas, and then look at the photo. Dean noted her face flickered with recognition the same time as Sam whispered, “Yes. She knows her.”

Cas nodded as the woman told him something while pointing outside. He handed her a coin and came back, looking smug.

“She knew Meg, huh?” Dean asked.

“She said her face was familiar. Said she looked like Margarita Wight,” he replied, flicking a finger over the photo. “The owner of the brothel.”

The brothers’ eyebrows shot up and Dean sputtered, “She said she’s _what_?”

“Did you say ‘brothel owner’?”

Cas shrugged. “The Alpha said a Mrs. Margarita Wight bought the brothel outright when she came into town. Paid coin and took it over about two weeks ago.”

“Sounds about right.”

Sam nodded absently. “This seems such an odd place to set up, though.”

Cas smiled wryly. “Is it? On the railroad but not at typical stopping spot. On the Mexico side, but close enough to America. A small town made primarily of women where she can hide.”

“When you put it that way…”

Cas winked at Dean, who blushed and looked away.

“I suppose our next stop is the brothel?”

Sam squirmed a bit. “That’s not really… my area.”

“Are you saying it’s mine?” Dean asked hotly. “They never let me in cathouses in Chicago.”

“That’s because you looked like a proper Omega,” Sam retorted. “Now you look like every other jackass out here.”

“Whatever, excuses.” Dean shrugged and tugged on Cas’s elbow. “C’mon, Cas. Let’s go check this out.”

The one street that passed through the center of town was quieter at 9am, meaning there was less open carousing. Dean was pretty certain he didn’t want to look into the saloons or even the brothel, positive it would be covered in smelly, unwashed bodies oozing sex pheromones, booze, and sweat.

“I will protect you, Dean,” Cas murmured, leaning to speak into his ear. The hot wash of breath, floating along with a wave of protective pheromones, made Dean shiver and step away.

“I can take care of myself,” he bitched, putting his hand on his gun.

Solemn, beautiful blue eyes regarded him evenly, and Dean knew it was a lost cause.

“Do what you will,” he rasped with exasperation, throwing his hands up and rolling his eyes skyward. “You’re going to anyway.”

That earned him a pleased, gummy smile and another warm wash of pine trees and _home_.

Sam sneezed and shattered the moment, sniffling into a kerchief. “Excuse me, all the dust, y’know?”

“Bless you,” Cas intoned, winking at Dean. Dean turned away, flustered and ignoring the heat to his face. Damn ~~sexy~~ Russian!

As Sam wiped his nose, a man was exiting the hotel behind them, mostly dressed, his pants barely hanging from a suspender, hat clinging onto his sweaty head, and no coat to hide his filthy gray and unbuttoned long johns. He was dragging behind him a mostly _undressed_ –breasts out for the world’s entertainment–and creatively cursing woman.

“I got land up yonder! Missy, be my bride!” He tried to cajole her, gripping her waist as her loose shift prevented him from getting a good handle on her squirming form.

Missy, a small blonde thing with brown eyes and deadly, tiny feet, grabbed a post as they passed it and screamed, “Fuck no, you drunk scab-herding saphead! Who the hell wants to live even _further_ into the middle of nowhere?!”

“Ah, c’mon, Missy! I got a cabin and you’d sure look purty in it! I’ll even get ya some curtains and stuff!”

The trio of men was about to draw on the guy, when a shot came from behind them, knocking the man down with a scream as he clutched his ear. Missy squeaked as his grip fell away and she ran back into the hotel to hide.

“Ain’t no way to treat a lady,” a woman’s voice drawled behind them. “Fucking touch her again, Walt, and you’ll lose more than just a piece of ear.”

Cas grinned as he turned with a twirl, “Ah! Foul-mouth demon woman!”

The woman was short, around five and a half feet at best, with dark hair cut short under her black slouch hat and standing proudly in a suit of black with a purple vest and tie over her high-collared white shirt. She had a gun belt on her slim hips and a wild look in her brown eyes as she took in Cas.

“Angel?” She grinned back, and Dean felt a twinge of something nasty in his chest. Maybe it was gas? “What the hell? What are you doing in this hell-spawned back wood?”

Beyond them, Walt attempted to sneak away, but Meg narrowed her sight and shot the man in the right buttcheek. He yelled in agony and scrabbled forward. “I’m serious, Walt. You fucking come into town and lay hands on one of my girls again, I’ll make you holier than the Pontiff himself.”

She looked over at Cas and smirked. “Like that, Angel? How holy is the Pontiff? Just brimming with them!”

Meg, because it was her, laughed delightedly at her own joke, but her gun never wavered as Walt painfully crawled on his horse and he half-draped himself across its back.

This, Dean thought, is a dangerous woman. But, also, she was supposed to be a Beta, from their information? This woman smelled like black pepper and chicory root, and it was not particularly pleasant.

Walt took off with a glare over his shoulder, but Meg didn’t put away her gun until he was out of range and out of view.

“That piece of shit,” she spat, shifting her coat over her gun. “I knew eventually I was going to have to kick his ass.”

“Or just shoot it,” Sam murmured, looking suitably impressed.

She ignored him and stepped towards Cas. “Angel! It’s been almost three weeks since I last saw you in El Paso!” She pressed in and held out her arms like she was about to hug him. “You look pretty well!”

Unable to contain himself, Dean growled at her and then felt totally foolish doing so.

Cas gave him a knowing glance as she fell back a step, surprised, and said, “Meg! My demoness of a friend! You are looking much different than before. New hair?”

Meg eyed Dean suspiciously and nodded. “I was tired of living a lie. I’m free now.”

Sam cleared his throat and said, “Ma’am, this is my brother Dean Winchester and I’m Sam. We are Pinkerton Detectives sent by your father to retrieve yo–“

She laughed harshly. “That filthy horsebag! There’s no way I’m going back to that gilded cage!”

“You’re an Alpha,” Dean said, stepping back a bit. Without his scent sachets, he felt naked as her eyes latched onto him and raked over his body.

Smugly, she took a long sniff and licked her lips at him, “And you’re an _Omega_ , Osir.”

Now, Cas stepped in closer to Dean, a low growl in his chest. “Keep your cheap sniffs to yourself or I will slap it off your face, Megan!”

She stared at him in surprise again and then started laughing with genuine amusement. “Ah, Angel. You’re such a unicorn. So sweet and naïve while being deadly as a viper.” She wiped tears from her eyes and tried to catch her breath. “How about we pick this up at my place after I get Missy checked and we can have a discussion like moderately civilized folk? What say you, Osir?”

Stiffly, Dean bowed. “At your convenience, Ama’am.”

A wicked grin on her face, and a wink for Cas, she turned into the hotel to get Missy, leaving the trio looking uncomfortable.

“Well, that was surprising,” Sam muttered.

“She’s so funny!” Cas grinned.

“Sonuvabitch,” Dean grumbled, the lingering scent of black pepper making him sneeze.

 


	11. The Demon Mrs. Wight

“Margarita’s House of Rapture” was…enlightening. Neither of the brothers had been inside a brothel, and Cas just sort of snorted and tried to look stoic in the face of layers and layers of old scents, with enough pheromones and body odor to raise the stakes from “unpleasant” to “rank.”

Dean was having a hard time not retching at the concentration.

The interior of the brothel was not much to speak of, insomuch as they could tell. It resembled some of the saloons with a set of stairs that led upwards. There was some new-looking flocked, Baroque-style wallpaper of black on gray florals that covered the walls, along with new tin-ceiling tiles in silver. A small chandelier, gas from the look of it, lent some class to the place, while a few other gas lamps decorated the walls, especially where the gameplay was situated. The wooden floors looked polished as did the bar and the gaming tables. An upright piano took up space by the stairs, closed up tightly. A few risqué paintings decorated the walls, all of women in erotic poses, and a small set of thin books sat near the doorway on a table decorated with silk flowers. Sam picked one up and thumbed through it, coloring red as he did so, nearly dropping it in his embarrassment.

“See anything you like, stud?”

Meg emerged from the shadow of the stairs, dressed in an Alpha’s tuxedo and a top hat, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. Her eyes sparkled with amusement as Sam actually jumped at her voice, as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been.

“What’s in the book?” Dean asked under his breath.

“Why, Osir! They’re advertisements for my girls! I’ve got the best women for a hundred miles and we have an agreement with the saloons and hotel for services.” She leered. “It’s all business, y’know? Women taking power over themselves.”

Cas tutted. “You didn’t say you were going to own a brothel.”

Meg grinned wide and knowingly. “My, my, dear sweet Angel… women have very few means to make a living out here, and do I look like I’m going to work in the dirt?” She patted the curve of her dark hair as it touched her nape. “Can you see me as a rancher?”

She guffawed at Cas’s bemused expression and waved them back towards her and the door, pushing it open so they could see inside. “C’mon, gents. I haven’t got all night. The 7:20 train will be stopping for freight and maybe some fleshier business.”

Her office was small but comfortable, a desk with a chair, a small table with comfortable chairs around it, and all of it decorated in deep burgundies and black.

Dean figured she must like black as she removed her top hat and sat it on the large pine desk, while crushing her cigarette in a glass dish. There were account books and more papers piled on top the polished surface, and she indicated that there was a place to hang their hats. “Make yourselves at home boys.” Her lips curled as she walked to the interior bar and fetched a tray with a decanter of what looked like whiskey and four snifters.

Dean had not seen such fancy glassware since stepping foot out west.

They took the offered glasses and Dean took a sniff. Oh…indeed, it was whiskey. Even better, it was _good_ bonded whiskey!

Meg gave him an amused look as she settled into her seat, leaning back comfortably and sipping on her drink. “There are some things I just can’t quit,” she said with a small gasp of appreciation. “Good whiskey is one of them.”

Sam put his glass on the table without drinking from it and leaned forward to show his badge. “Ama’am, I– well, _we_ have been hired by your sire to find you and return you to his side.”

She sipped again, her face impassive as she listened.

“ _Nyet,_ Meg hates Chicago,” Cas muttered with a shake of his head, having downed the drink in one shot. “She says it makes her ‘small,’ whatever that means.”

Meg grinned wickedly and leaned forward herself, the scent of black pepper strong in the room. “That’s exactly it, Angel,” she said, reaching over to a cigarette-holding box on the table and offering one of the thin prefabricated cigarettes to the men. They all declined with a shake of their heads, and she slipped one out and lit a match she took from the same box. The cover clicked tightly, likely preserving their freshness, and she sat back a bit with a long drag.

“That old bastard was suffocating me!” She breathed out on a cloud of smoke, “Telling that stinky fool Cooke that I was a _Beta_!” She snorted, thin wisps emerging from her nose as if punctuating her disgust. “There was no way I was letting him lay a hand on me. I was tired of pretending to be a Beta.”

“It is a miracle you could, with that mouth and bad temper,” Cas said as he got up and fetched the decanter, bringing it back to the table and pouring himself another drink. His accent was a touch heavier, the Rs rolling a bit harder. “Meg, why did you not just tell him ‘fuck off’ like you do everyone else?”

She rolled her eyes and took another long sip, and then leaned her glass in Cas’s direction for a refill. He obliged her. “Because my father is a manipulative old fuck and he made my life _very_ hard if I tried to get out of line.” She shot the booze down like Cas had, gasping a bit at the strength, her eyes clenched shut as she winced at the burn. Meg finally managed, “He threatened to have me officially neutered if I stepped out of line.”

Sam gasped out and even Dean gaped. “But…” he sputtered, “But that’s barbaric!”

“Not to mention illegal,” Sam growled.

“Well, dear old daddy never let that stop him from getting his way.” She didn’t even sound bitter but resigned. “He was going to see me married to Cooke one way or another, and I promised myself I’d escort him to Hell first.”

“You should’ve called the police,” Sam started, his indignation evident.

“My dear father has the chief of police in his pocket,” she murmured, waving her cigarette around and sipping at her drink. “Not to mention a few other officials.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Dean snorted, swirling the whiskey in his untouched glass, deciding to take a swallow as Cas downed his second helping like water. He gasped on the burn, his eyes watering a bit. The whiskey was much smoother than any he’s tried out here but still strong.

Meg chuckled as she leaned forward to pour herself another and motioning for Cas to bring his glass closer so she could refill it.

“Ridiculous or not, until I turned 18 or married, he could do as he pleased with me.” She smiled companionably at Cas and Dean fought back a possessive snarl. “So, I ran.”

She sat back again, crossing her legs in a most unladylike manner, and asked airily, “Now, what are you big boys going to do about little ole me?”

Dean exchanged looks with Sam, who was still looking a bit green around the gills from the neutering comment. Neither of them could imagine having a child stripped of their primary glands. As a female Alpha, they would have had to mutilate her genitalia as well. They both suppressed a shudder, and Sam cleared his throat awkwardly. “Seeing as we’re on the Mexico side…”

“And we don’t have jurisdiction here,” Dean muttered, sipping his whiskey.

“I imagine we would have lost you at the border,” Sam concluded, looking grimly into his glass.

“Imagine that,” Meg snorted. “I’ve been fortunate, boys. I was guided here by fate and made a demon’s deal with an old devil by the name of Crowley while sitting at the crossroads.” She made a round motion with her glass and smiled a tad woozily. “That creepy old Omega owns most of the property in this town and sold the train company the rights to this whistle stop.”

Grimacing, she gulped down her booze, grunted as she put the glass on the table, and forced herself to stand. She brushed the tails of her coat, took her top hat between thin fingers, deftly maneuvered it on, and tapped it on top to get it in place.

“Not that it hasn’t been swell, gents, but I’m a working woman, now. My clients line up ‘round the corner for a piece of my sweet house of temptations.” She rapped on the table with her knuckles. “Unless, of course, Osir has a hankering to try out a house of ill repute,” Meg leered, leaning towards Dean a bit.

Cas snarled, baring his teeth, and Meg just winked at him. “You’re invited too, Angel. Although it might be too much cock for one virginal Omega.”

This time Dean growled and Meg ignored him, blowing him a kiss. “Too bad, Freckles.”

Sam was sitting with his face in his hands, red as a beet, and shaking in horrified laughter. “This is seriously no place for civilized folk,” he choked out.


	12. Gunfight Shenanigans

The return to the hotel was silent among the trio, although Sam was muttering about “never wanting to hear that again” and “can’t wait to get out of here.”

They stopped to clean up a bit before heading down to eat dinner at the hotel, the conversation halting thanks to the sheer amount of noise that was building outside and the tromping up and down of feet on the stairways and halls.

At least they couldn’t hear the beds moving.

Yet.

Until they returned to their rooms to try and sleep, at least.

“I think we should go ahead and see about catching the morning train to Deming,” Sam said over the sound of whooping men outside in the entranceway.

“I don’t know,” Dean said, poking at his pulled pork and beans. “Maybe we should ask Meg about her father’s dealings? Get some evidence from her so we can look into it when we get back?”

Cas said nothing, his eyes on his plate, his knuckles white from holding his fork too tightly.

“Maybe.” Sam sighed and pushed his hair out of his face. It was getting unruly out in the hot sun and being tucked in a hat all day.

“I’ll go talk to her for you,” Cas said, his shoulders tense. “I think she will…what’s it… _respond_ better to me.”

Dean felt his lips tuck in with disapproval, a jealous, possessive urge bubbling up from his core. “Why don’t we just send Sam? He needs to look over what’s good for legal reasons.”

Cas smiled thinly, dropping his fork with a clack against the dishware. He had asked for fried fish and stewed parsnips but had not eaten much. “We can both go. I will protect Sam since I am unneeded here.”

Dean felt please but affronted, for some conflicted reason, and tried to contain himself. “Sam can take care of himself.”

In the moment of silence between them, there were a series of gunshots outside, punctuated by screams that died off quickly. No one bothered to get up to check.

Sam eyed both of them and then became entirely engrossed by his over-boiled chicken with the same stewed parsnips.

“I can get Meg to hand over any evidence. We do not know if she will do so for Sam.”

Dean scowled and snapped, “Neither of you should go out there! They’re _shooting_ people!”

Cas shrugged, crossing his arms. “They are always shooting people in here. No problem.”

“ _No problem?!_ ” Dean nearly shrieked, sucking in his breath at the last second so it came out a wheeze. “No problem?!”

Cas patted Dean on the shoulder as he stood, hatless and coatless as they had directly come down to dinner and had not been planning on leaving the hotel anymore. The number of shots of bonded whiskey had not seemed to have affected Cas much at all as he motioned to Sam to stand up. “Come, Sam! Let us go see Meg before things become much busier for her.”

Dean, sucking in a breath to yell at them both, was stopped by Sam nodding and putting down his own fork. Sam gave him the sad puppy look and Dean deflated as Sam said, “It’s better if you stay here, Dean. I mean, without your sachets, you’re just…”

Dean glared, eyes narrowed into slits. “Just…what, Sam?”

“There are too many drunken asses running around this village looking for sex is all,” Sam leaned in and muttered. “Look, just…stay here! We’ll be back soon.”

Cas had already stood up and was waiting for Sam by the exit. Dean glared at him too and flipped him off before throwing down his fork and charging upstairs. Controlling dicks!

 

 

 

The fact was, they had avoided being outside in the wild ruckus of _any_ of these vice-ridden towns. Sam was not immune to the lures of busty Beta women, but he needed something more to crank his shaft.

He did feel rather foolish following Cas outside and leaving Dean alone, but hopefully Dean had taken their warnings about his scent and he had gone upstairs to wait. Surely, they wouldn’t be gone too long.

Sam watched Cas as he walked along the street, his posture seemingly loose and casual, and not as dangerous as he was. Sam had seen what Cas had done to Walker’s arm, and the man would be lucky if he got full use of it ever again.

The Alpha was not to be fucked with, that was certain.

“So, Sam,” Cas said, eyes on a bunch of men in mining gear walking up the street towards the saloons, “Tell me about Chicago. Dean wants to go back.”

There was a hint of sadness there, and Sam wondered why he had the worst luck when it came to people talking to him about his brother. “He does. We own property there and we are the nearest kin to our grandfather, whose estates we’ll inherit.”

“Dean, too?”

Sam wasn’t surprised by the question. Most families didn’t leave property or money to Omegas. They did only if they had to, since the property would belong to whoever mated the Omega. That would take it out of the family name, which no Alpha line wanted.

“Our grandfather is very prosperous, and the Campbells raise Omegas like their other children: with the ability to protect themselves and the family.” The raucous noises from the brothel were near deafening, what with the piano pounding out what sounded like “[Camptown Races](https://youtu.be/noYptXPHiAE)” accompanied by the stomping of feet and off-key drunken singing inside. “We own a gun shop that we inherited from our father, but we gave control to someone else, so we could continue with the Pinkertons.”

Cas hummed, eyes on the small fist fight that had boiled out of the brothel’s door. The two men looked evenly matched until the one in the brown hat weaved when he should have ducked and got hit solidly with a roundhouse to the jaw. He flew back a bit, hit dirt, and rolled on a bit more on sheer momentum.

The crowd (that had been rooting over the fight) oo’d and aww’d over the fast conclusion, and Sam realized these people were insane.

It was _insane_ to want to conclude all your business with violence, be it fists or bullets.

The winner, a wiry man in dirty speckled cowboy gear, wiped his chin with the back of his hand, flicking away the blood impatiently. “Noaw, git up fr’m dat,” he spat, a bloody gobbet landing near the other man’s prone body.

The crowd cheered, and several men surrounded the winner, slapping him on the back, and chanting, “Cole! Cole! Cole!”

The man, Cole, swung around and flung his fists up in victory. “I killed me plenty of Johnny Rebs in the War! No fat butternut is gonna beat me!!” He let out a victory whoop and grabbed a bottle out of someone’s hands, pouring it into his open-wide mouth and oblivious to most of it.

“Was the war not 20 years ago?”

Sam nodded. “Well, 22 to be exact, but he could have been a drummer boy or something.”

Cas hummed. “He does not look that old, so perhaps?”

They ignored the ongoing rowdy crowd outside and made their way inside. It was uncomfortably packed with people, and Sam was glad for his sensible Beta nose. Having a higher-powered snoot in this case would have been misery, and if Cas’s suddenly looking pale and green around the edges was any indication, ‘misery’ was a light term.

“Do you see her?” Sam asked, trying to get to the point.

Cas shook his head and pointed towards the back, where her office was. Sam bobbed his head in agreement and they move through the madding crowds to the back.

The door was closed, but even with all the noise, they could hear Meg screaming at someone. Cas knocked hard, and moments later, the door was flung open with a vicious tug. Meg glared at them, her eyes glassy and her face flushed. Sweat dewed her face and her hair was not as perfectly coiffed as before.

“What do you want?” She snapped.

“Um, well–“

“We need to talk to you a moment,” Cas interjected. “We are leaving in the morning, so we want to do it now.”

She eyed them both narrowly and jerked her head for them to enter as she opened the door wider.

Inside, a man stood, dressed all in dark brown and still wearing his hat. The hat hid his face, but not the Bowie knife on his belt or the large hand wrapped around it.

“It’s fine,” Meg said stiffly. “Mr. Styne here was just leaving.”

Mr. Styne smiled from under his brim and said with a Southern accent, “As you say, Ama’am.”

Something about it was mocking, however, and Sam felt Cas tense minutely beside him.

He flashed sky gray eyes at them, a handsome man with a week’s worth of scruff and Beta long hair. “My father sends his regards, Ama’am. I suggest you heed my words.”

Mr. Styne slipped past them with a tilt of his hat, leaving Cas watching him with razor-sharpness. With the man gone, Meg pushed Sam and Cas inside, slamming the door behind them so violently, the walls shook.

Not that it mattered much, with as many feet stomping outside, but it was impressive, nonetheless.

“Those Styne Family assholes,” she seethed. “I warned them from coming here already!”

“What is going on?” Cas asked softly, gripping her shoulders.

She huffed. “The Styne family have noticed Perla Negra has become a favorite whistle stop and have taken an interest in my businesses.”

“Are they pressuring you?” Cas asked with a snarl.

Meg laughed dismissively. “Didn’t I tell you that this area is technically overseen by that bitchy Omega, Crowley? I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already heard about the threats to his territory and sent his personal ‘attack dog’ Alphas after the head of that snake, Monroe.” She picked up a glass and threw it at the wall, the shards scattering across the floor. “I cannot even fucking believe that men won’t leave me alone _here_!”

Sam immediately went into crisis mode and tried to calm her down, holding his hands out and trying to get her to stop snarling at them like they were the intruders in her den. (They _were_ but they were _friendlies_.)

She raked her hands through her hair and gripped two handfuls, snarling and hissing about stupid donkey-fucking moronic monkeys trying to take her turf. Cas said nothing and just watched her get her frustrations out, which was actually quite impressive to Sam since he just wanted the tension in the air to alleviate.

When Meg finally collapsed into a chair panting hard, Cas picked up another glass, poured whiskey from the decanter, and handed it to her. She took it like a shot, gasping as it went down.

“You know, you really shouldn’t treat good whiskey like that,” Sam murmured, not surprised when her brown eyes snapped open and narrowed on him. He backed up a step with his hands up, an apologetic look on his face, and she snorted with amusement as she put down the glass.

“Regardless of my Styne issues, what are you fellows here for?” She combed down her hair with her fingers and then straightened her bow tie.

Sam explained about the possibility of bringing down Meg’s corrupt father and his friends (at which Meg howled with laughter) and Cas interjected that they were leaving in the morning, so any evidence at all would be helpful.

Meg reached over and gripped the decanter with one hand, pouring what was left of the liquor in her glass. It was almost to the top. “Now, the problem here, boys,” she said as she sat back and sipped, “is that I might have kept records of my father’s misconduct, but that was in case I needed leverage against him. What you’re asking me to do is strip myself of my protection.”

“Does it matter?” Sam asked, moving closer to grip the back of a chair. “We’ll tell him you’re dead. In fact, if you have a token, we can get you out of his sights permanently.”

Dark brown eyes regarded him solemnly, flicking over to Cas for confirmation, arching a surprised brow when he nodded seriously. “And what about you, Angel? You going to the Windy City, too?”

Cas said nothing, his face impassive.

“Ah, trouble in paradise already?” She cooed.

He remained impassive and she rolled her eyes. “Fine.” She gestured over at Sam. “I’ll give you what I have _and_ a token as long as my father thinks I’m dead and never looks for me again.”

Sam agreed to that as Meg drank down half of the glass and wobbled over to her desk. She hit the side _just so_ and a small cubby hole emerged. “Haven’t even had time to get a safe in this,” she slurred, digging around. She pulled out a journal and a pile of papers tied together and lobbed them at Sam, who caught them awkwardly. “That’s everything I have. The papers are some documents I stole from his safe…which might be another reason he wanted me back.”

She shrugged unapologetically and dove back into the cubby hole, pulling out a small yellow fabric bag. “Ah, I’m glad I thought of this!”

Meg weaved over to Cas, gripped his arm with her free hand and leaned on him. “Ah, Angel… stick around, will ya? Stay with me?”

Cas didn’t respond, and she stared into his face before laughing brittlely and lightly smacking him in the chest. “Just a joke! I know you don’t want to associate anymore!” Meg ducked her head and pushed the bag onto him. “Here, take that with you. I kept it as a memento of an old life I don’t need.”

She dragged her hand down his face fondly and dropped a kiss on his cheek, patting his jaw. “My unicorn… such an innocent heart…”

They left Meg passed out in the room, Cas making sure to lock it behind them, and stepped back into the still incredibly rank room, where most of the people had seemed to have cleared out a bit, leaving behind the ghost of their stench.

“Ебать-копать! This is _foul_ ,” Cas complained, face twisting with disgust.

“If _I_ can smell it this strongly, I don’t even want to think about you or Dean,” Sam coughed.

They pushed their way back through the room, holding onto the documents and cloth bag. To their surprise, when they walked out, there were two or three bodies lying in the street and a group of onlookers at the edges, staring nervously.

At the center of the maelstrom were two men in matching outfits and similar heights. At first glance, they looked like twins, and Sam recognized the slightly bulkier one as the guy from Meg’s office.

“Styne!” He hissed.

Cas said nothing, just stared at the Stynes who were spitting on the corpses on the ground. Sam noted that one of the men had a knife wound to the chest, while the other two had been shot. The knife-wound guy also looked like that Cole person from earlier.

“The Confederacy will rise again,” the first Styne chuckled. His twin grinned and elbowed him, his guns out and his eyes on the crowd.

“Hey,” the twin said, his voice also carrying a patois of the South, “There are those guys you mentioned!”

The first Styne turned, his gray eyes surprisingly fierce in the light of the hung oil lamps along the street to help people walk back to the hotel. “’Tis them alright,” he grinned, sharp and feral, “Now, who would you two gents be that Mrs. Wight would throw out a _Styne_ for you?”

Sam fought not to roll his eyes at the pompousness. “Who we are is irrelevant, and we don’t know any Stynes, thanks. We’ll be on our way.”

The twin (although he was a lighter blond and maybe half an inch taller) trained his guns on them. “Watch your mouth, cowboy. This is our territory.”

Sam mouthed, “Cowboy?” unable to believe he’d be confused for one.

Cas said, his accent heavier, “Выпердыш, this is not your territory. Mrs. Wight has said so.” His gaze narrowed, and the street got quieter as people were moving from the crowd to try and move the dead men before more shit hit the fan. “Also, we do not particularly care, as long as you leave her alone.”

The twin Stynes spared each other a glance and grinned like twin sickles. “Did you hear that Cousin Eli? They’re trying to protect that wily Cyprian.”

Eli pulled back the hammer of his gun. “Indeed, Cousin Eldon. They're not just cowboys, but knights in shining armor, too!”

“H-hey, now, wait a sec–“

Sam saw something flash out of the corner of his eye and swallowed down his protest as Cas had pulled, from behind his back somehow, what looked like several tiny daggers sticking out between his fingers. He mentally cursed himself for leaving the hotel without his guns, but he really hadn’t thought they were going to get into a gunfight. He sighed heavily at himself. “That’s what I get for not thinking ahead.”

“What’s that, pretty boy?” Eli leered at him and Sam felt disgust and disbelief coil inside him. Was this how Dean constantly felt?

Two sets of eerily similar eyes were on him and Sam shook his head. “You’ll regret it if you kill us,” Sam declared, setting his shoulders. “We’re Pinkerton men. They won’t let it go.”

Eli (the one with the gun) snorted with laughter. “We’re in Mexico, _putain_. What makes you think they’ll even know you’re dead?”

“Because _I’ll know_ , you sick sons of a bitch.”

They turned to look at who had spoken, and the crowd screamed as Eli looked surprised to find a bullet had struck him in the head. He fell over with a thump. Eldon snarled and threw his knife while reaching for his gun, only to also get a bullet to the brain.

Cas was already moving, swearing in what sounded like Russian, enveloping Dean in his arms and kissing him. Sam saw Dean was wearing Cas's coat and hat, undoubtedly counting on the smell to cover his own pheromones. But not enough from stopping Cas from looking him over and kissing him again.

“Well,” Sam groused as he skidded to a stop, watching them pulling at each other with ferocious snarls and grunts, “that is singularly disgusting.”

Then the low moans of “Please! Cas!” and Russian mutterings of what were (maybe?) endearments were just a bit too much after Sam’s rather tense past hour or so. He coughed.

They ignored him, and Sam suspected Cas’s hands were going places he, Dean’s brother, did _not_ want to think about.

He cleared his throat loudly.

There was a series of low growls and “Yeah, right there”s that made Sam cringe.

Finally, Sam shouted, “ ** _You’re in the middle of the damn street, you perverts! Cut it out!_** ”

That finally broke them apart, but then Sam was confronted with Dean’s woozy-looking face (disgustingly pink and slobbery) and a possessive-looking Cas.

“Look,” Sam said, putting his hands out to calm them, “I just wanted to say thank you, Dean. You saved the day.”

Dean looked proud of himself and Cas, apparently unable to stop himself, scooped the Omega up and dashed away.

“Utterly grotesque,” he groaned, figuring that as soon as tonight, his Omega brother would be mated and things would… _could_ change.

“No place for civilized people,” Sam huffed, eyeing the overly curious crowd behind them, the two dead Stynes tossed to the side with the other dead men, and everyone either selecting their beauty for the night or moving on to bed.


	13. Epilogue?

 

When Dean woke up, it was with a weird feeling of someone draped over him, an arm tightly wrapped around him, and hot breath against his nape.

A nape, he blearily noted, that stung.

…that stung.

He threw himself out of bed and twirled to stare at the Alpha in his bed. An Alpha who was staring at him grumpily, too much of his skin looking warm and inviting, and muttering something in (probably) Russian. “Dean,” he finally grumbled, scrubbing at his face and sweeping his fingers through his wild hair, “дорогой…what is wrong?”

Dean wasn’t sure his eyes could get wider, but he recognized that his shock could get worse. “WHAT THE FUCK? YOU’RE NAKED!”

He looked down. “I’M NAKED!” 

He clapped a hand to his neck, wincing at the pain. "Oh shit! I'm _mated_!"

He fainted. 

* * *

 

When he awoke yet again, the arms around him were tight, and a soft mouth was planting kisses along his shoulder. “Calm, супруг. You will hurt yourself again.”

This, Dean thought, was not what I was expecting when I woke up.

Then again, he barely remembered what happened.

Last night, after having shot the assholes threatening not only his little brother but his _mate_ , Dean had lost himself in Cas.

The Alpha had looked undone at seeing Dean wearing his coat and hat instead of Dean’s own gear, and Dean was too overtaken by the sheer scent of _home_ and thick luscious overtones of desire and love. Then there had been the kissing, which… (Dean felt his face flush hotly) he had not expected to make a show of it, but now he remembered his brother's scarred and disturbed expression, while people in the background whistled at them.

If Perla Negra had been more decorous, perhaps Dean would have felt more shame, but they were leaving and it didn’t matter. Plus most of the population was made of prostitutes, so he was sure they hadn't cared.

“What time is it?” Cas asked woozily, kissing over the sore spot on Dean’s neck.

Without thinking, Dean scrambled and reached onto the nightstand, grabbing his watch, only to stare at it a moment with a frown. “Fuck, I forgot this doesn’t work.”

There was a pause behind him, and Cas said, “Cупруг, where did you get that?”

“Hmm? I bought it in El Paso.” He touched the exterior with fond fingers. “It called to me, although it doesn’t work. The shopkeep said it needs a special key, but I took it anyway. Maybe I can find one in Chicago.”

Cas hummed and kissed Dean on the mouth. “One moment.”

He slipped out of bed and Dean couldn’t _not_ watch that amazing ass walk across the room to his clothes. He rummaged in the pockets of his trousers and located the small chain he kept on his own vest. On the end of it was a tiny key with a heart-shaped top and a star-shaped prong on the end. He took it off and walked back to bed, slipping in beside Dean again. “Here, my супруг. I forgot to give to the man when I sold it.”

Dean gaped at Cas and then at the key. He opened the watch and slipped the winder into the hole.

It fit perfectly, the arms of the watch moving almost immediately after being wound.

Cas smiled gently and stroked the watch’s side with a finger. “I was given the care of the second oldest child, Grand Duke George Alexandrovich, who is quite the young man. He had a few scares when his family was attacked but he is a favorite because he is outgoing and brilliant.” Cas sighed. “He is to be sixteen in May. I had been with him since he was a boy.”

“You miss him?”

Cas grunted out a laugh. “I do. He and my brother Gabriel were terrors, playing pranks on tutors and family. After Gabriel left...When he found out I was leaving, he gave me this watch.”

Dean handed over the watch. “Why did you sell such an important memento, then?”

His lips quirked into a lonely smile, Cas replied, “Because I wanted a fresh beginning with nothing more to tie me to Russia. I love that child very much, and I do not want to hurt for his loss.”

Cas pointed to the front, “He also called me ‘angel,’ and the front says ‘Angel Castiel.’” He opened the watch. “While in here, it says ‘Castiel, I believe you are an angel who saved my life. God bless you.’” Cas sighed. “Yet, it could not have fallen into better hands.” He closed and pressed the watch into Dean’s hand, staring into Dean’s eyes.

“Dean, we have not known each other long, but you are my супруг, my mate, who I found in the wilds of America when I was not looking. When I had lost hope.” He pressed a soft loving kiss onto Dean’s mouth and murmured, “I love you. All of you. Even the… какое слово я ищу… umm… _temperamental_ parts.” 

“Temperamental parts?” Dean repeated tightly, drawing back and expression shuttered.

Cas peppered his shoulder with kisses and endearments until Dean chuckled and relaxed again. When Dean was finally pliant, he allowed himself to be pulled him into Cas’s arms and kissed deeply. Bastard. Cas was too good at that.

Pulling away a bit to look into his eyes, Cas murmured, “Marry me, красивый, my beloved Dean…let’s protect each other until death parts us, and even then, if I had to walk through heaven or hell, I would still come back to you.”

Maybe Dean cried a bit. Maybe he hiccupped and snorted through a ‘yes?’ Maybe the mateless 27-year-old Omega spinster was more than a little touched?

Maybe they lived happily ever after?


	14. EPILOGUE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you all are just glad this is OVER. Whew.
> 
> Again, this is my LAST SPN BANG. I'm going to finish up my other stories, but there may not be anything new after that. Thanks for everything folks, and thanks especially for reading!

They all three ended up back in Chicago without even stopping by El Paso for Cas to say goodbye. “They are used to farewells,” he said thickly, promising to send a letter.

Dean held his hand tightly as the train rattled on, Sam pointedly looking away.

Of course, Dean had once and for all overcome his worship of dime novels, knowing it was not all daring deeds and rescued maidens. It was a lot of heat, shit, and stinky people with low regard for hygiene. He was newly interested in ‘moving pictures’ and had been corresponding with Ash about news and development. When ‘[The Man in the Moon](https://youtu.be/g8SMIiQZUcs)’ finally came to Chicago, Dean raved about Georges Méliès’s film endlessly and began writing scripts with Ash for possible films.

When they had originally left El Paso, they had left their trunk with Mrs. Harvelle to send back to Chicago. Being nosy, Bobby had opened it and then harangued them on their return for carrying a god damn trunk with books and dime novels in it! “Wasting company funds!” The old Alpha seethed.

He had also been pissed that Dean had gone off and gotten himself mated without a word to him. Because of that, it had taken a while for Bobby to warm to Castiel, but once he did, they got along quite famously. Their interests in politics, languages, and religion brought them closer than Dean actually liked. Even Grandfather Campbell had liked Cas, to everyone’s surprise, but Dean knew it was because Cas had worked hard at whatever job he was given _and_ he was deadly as any Campbell.

It was no surprise to anyone, then, that Bobby had invited Cas to join the Pinkertons as Dean’s new partner. Sam had moved out, saying it was just unbelievably disgusting to be in the same room as the two lovebirds. Luckily, his old crush, Miss Moore, had missed him while he was gone, and he was now seeing her while working at a new small law firm. He had had enough of adventure and was ready to settle down.

Possibly with Miss Moore.

Overall, Dean thought as he snuggled in next to his Alpha, the adventure had been worth it, and he was always going to be one of the Pinkerton Boys.


End file.
